The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Thou Gavest, by Harriet T. Comstock

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Title: The Man Thou Gavest

Author: Harriet T. Comstock

Release Date: February 1, 2005 [EBook #14858]

Language: English

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[Illustration: "Do you think I am the sort of girl who would sell
herself for anything--even for the justice I might think was yours?"]

THE MAN THOU GAVEST

BY

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

AUTHOR OF JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS, A SON OF THE HILLS, ETC.

FRONTISPIECE BY E.F. WARD



DEDICATION

_I dedicate this book of mine to the lovely spot where most of it was
written_

THE MACDOWELL COLONY PETERBOROUGH NEW HAMPSHIRE

AND

"TO HER WHO UNDERSTANDS"

Deep in the pine woods is the little Studio where work is made supremely
possible. Around the house the birds and trees sing together and no
disturbing thing is permitted to trespass.

Within, like a tangible Presence, an atmosphere of loved labour; good
will and high hopes greet the coming guests and speed the parting.

Little Studio in the pine woods, my appreciation and affection are
yours!

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK




THE MAN THOU GAVEST




CHAPTER I


The passengers, one by one, left the train but Truedale took no heed. He
was the only one left at last, but he was not aware of it, and then,
just as the darkness outside caught his attention, the train stopped so
suddenly that it nearly threw him from his seat.

"Accident?" he asked the conductor. "No, sah! Pine Cone station. I
reckon the engineer come mighty nigh forgetting--he generally does at
the end. The tracks stop here. You look mighty peaked; some one
expecting yo'?"

"I've been ill. My doctor ordered me to the hills. Yes: some one will
meet me." Truedale did not resent the interest the man showed; he was
grateful.

"Well, sah, if yo' man doesn't show up--an' sometimes they don't, owing
to bad roads--you can come back with us after we load up with the wood.
I live down the track five miles; we lie thar fur the night. Yo' don't
look equal to taking to yo' two standing feet."

The entire train force of three men went to gather fuel for the return
trip and, dejectedly, Truedale sat down in the gloom and silence to
await events.

No human being materialized and Truedale gave himself up to gloomy
thoughts. Evidently he must return on the train and to-morrow morning
take to--just then a spark like a falling star attracted his attention
and to his surprise he saw, not a dozen feet away, a tall lank man
leaning against a tree in an attitude so adhesive that he might have
been a fungus growth or sprig of destroying mistletoe. It never occurred
to Truedale that this indifferent onlooker could be interested in him,
but he might be utilized in the emergency, so he saluted cordially.

"Hello, friend!"

By the upward and downward curve of the glowing pipe bowl, Truedale
concluded the man was nodding.

"I'm waiting for Jim White."

"So?" The one word came through the darkness without interest.

"Do you happen to know him?"

"Sorter."

"Could you--get me to his place?"

"I reckon. That's what I come ter do."

"I--I had a trunk sent on ahead; perhaps it is in that shed?"

"It's up to--to Jim's place. Can you ride behind me on the mare?
Travelling is tarnation bad."

Once they were on the mare's back, conversation dragged, then died a
natural death. Truedale felt as if he were living a bit of anti-war
romance as he jogged along behind his guide, his grip knocking
unpleasantly against his leg as the way got rougher.

It was nine o'clock when, in a little clearing close by the trail, the
lights of a cabin shone cheerily and the mare stopped short and
definitely.

"I hope White is at home!" Truedale was worn to the verge of exhaustion.

"I be Jim White!" The man dismounted and stood ready to assist his
guest.

"Welcome, stranger. Any one old Doc McPherson sends here brings his
welcome with him."

About a fortnight later, Conning Truedale stretched his long legs out
toward Jim White's roaring fire of pine knots and cones. It was a fierce
and furious fire but the night was sharp and cold. There was no other
light in the room than that of the fire--nor was any needed.

Jim sat by the table cleaning a gun. Truedale was taking account of
himself. He held his long, brown hand up to the blaze; it was as steady
as that of a statue! He had walked ten miles that day and felt
exhilarated. Night brought sleep, meal time--and often in between
times--brought appetite. He had made an immense gain in health.

"How long have I been here, Jim?" he asked in a slow, calm voice.

"Come Thursday, three weeks!" When Jim was most laconic he was often
inwardly bursting with desire for conversation. After a silence Conning
spoke again:

"Say, Jim, are there any other people in this mountain range, except you
and me?"

"Ugh! just bristlin' with folks! Getting too darned thick. That's why
I've got ter get into the deep woods. I just naturally hate folks except
in small doses. Why"--here Jim put the gun down upon the table--"five
mile back, up on Lone Dome, is the Greyson's, and it ain't nine miles to
Jed Martin's place. Miss Lois Ann's is a matter o' sixteen miles; what
do you call population if them figures don't prove it?"

Something had evidently disturbed White's ideas of isolation and
independence--it would all come out later. Truedale knew his man fairly
well by that time; at least he thought he did. Again Jim took up his gun
and Con thought lazily that he must get over to his shack. He occupied a
small cabin--Dr. McPherson's property for sleeping purposes.

"Do yo' know," Jim broke in suddenly; "yo' mind me of a burr runnin'
wild in a flock of sheep--gatherin' as yo' go. Yo' sho are a miracle!
Now old Doc McPherson was like a shadder when he headed this way--but he
took longer gatherin', owin' to age an' natural defects o' build. Your
frame was picked right close, but a kind o' flabby layer of gristle and
fat hung ter him an' wasn't a good foundation to build on."

Conning gave a delighted laugh. Once Jim White began to talk of his own
volition his discourse flowed on until hunger or weariness overtook him.
His silences had the same quality--it was the way Jim began that
mattered.

"When I first took ter handlin' yo' for ole Doc McPherson, I kinder
hated ter take my eyes off yo' fearin' yo' might slip out, but Gawd! yo'
can grapple fo' yo' self now and--I plain hanker fur the sticks."

"The sticks?" This was a new expression.

"Woods!" Jim vouchsafed (he despised the stupidity that required
interpretation of perfectly plain English), "deep woods! What with Burke
Lawson suspected of bein' nigh, an' my duty as sheriff consarnin' him
hittin' me in the face, I've studied it out that it will be a mighty
reasonable trick fur this here officer of the law to be somewhere else
till Burke settles with his friends an' foes, or takes himself off,
'fore he's strung up or shot up."

Truedale turned his chair about and faced Jim.

"Do you know," he said, "you've mentioned more names in the last ten
minutes than you've mentioned in all the weeks I've been here? You give
me a mental cramp. Why, I thought you and I had these hills to
ourselves; instead we're threatened on every side, and yet I haven't
seen a soul on my tramps. Where do they keep themselves? What has this
Burke Lawson done, to stir the people?"

"You don't call your santers real tramps, do you? Why folks is as thick
as ticks up here, though they don't knock elbows like what they do where
you cum from. They don't holler out ter 'tract yer attention, neither.
But they're here."

"Let's hear more of Burke Lawson." Truedale gripped _him_ from the
seething mass of humanity portrayed by White, as the one promising most
colour and interest. "Just where does Burke live?"

"Burke? Gawd! Burke don't live anywhere. He is a born floater. He
scrooges around a place and raises the devil, then he just naturally
floats off. But he nearly always comes back. Since the trap-settin' a
time back, he has been mighty scarce in these parts; but any day he may
turn up."

"The trap, eh? What about that?" With this Truedale turned about again,
for Jim, having finished his work on the gun, had placed the weapon on
its pegs on the wall and had drawn near the fire. He ran his hand
through his crisp, gray hair until it stood on end and gave him a
peculiarly bristling appearance. He was about to enjoy himself. He was
as keen for gossip as any cabin woman of the hills, but Jim was an
artist about sharing his knowledge. However, once he decided to share,
he shared royally.

"I've been kinder waitin' fur yo' to show some interest in us-all," he
began, "it's a plain sign of yo' gettin' on. I writ the same to old Doc
McPherson yesterday! 'When he takes to noticin',' I writ, 'he's on the
mend.'"

Conning laughed good naturedly. "Oh! I'm on the mend, all right," he
said.

"Now as to that trap business," Jim took up the story, "I'll have to go
back some and tell yo' about the Greysons and Jed Martin--they all be
linked like sassages. Pete Greyson lives up to Lone Dome. Pete came from
stock; he ain't trash by a long come, but he can act like it! Pete's
forbears drank wine and talked like lords; Pete has ter rely on mountain
dew and that accounts fur the difference in his goin's-on; but once he's
sober, he's quality--is Pete. Pete's got two darters--Marg an'
Nella-Rose. Old Doc McPherson use' ter call 'em types, whatever that
means. Marg is a type, sure and sartin, but Nella-Rose is a little
no-count--that's what I say. But blame it all, it's Nella-Rose as has
set the mountains goin', so far as I can see. Fellers come courtin' Marg
and they just slip through her fingers an' Nella-Rose gets 'em. She
don't want 'em 'cept to play with and torment Marg. Gawd! how them two
gals do get each other edgy. Round about Lone Dome they call Nella-Rose
the doney-gal--that meaning 'sweetheart'; she's responsible for more
trouble than a b'ar with a sore head, or Burke Lawson on a tear."

Conning was becoming vitally interested and showed it, to Jim's
delight; this was a dangerous state for White, he was likely, once
started and flattered, to tell more than was prudent.

"Jed Martin"--Jim gave a chuckle--"has been tossed between them two gals
like a hot corn pone. He'd take Nella-Rose quick enough if she'd have
him, but barrin' her, he hangs to Marg so as ter be nigh Nella-Rose in
any case. And right here Burke Lawson figgers. Burke's got two naturs,
same as old Satan. Marg can play on one and get him plumb riled up to
anythin'; Nella-Rose can twist him around her finger and make him act
like the Second Coming."

Conning called a halt. "What's the Second Coming?" he asked, his eyes
twinkling.

"Meaning?--good as a Bible character," Jim explained huffily. "Gawd,
man! do your own thinkin'. I can't talk an' splanify ter onct."

"Oh! I see. Well, go on, Jim."

"There be times of the moon when I declare that no-count Nella-Rose just
plain seems possessed; has ter do somethin' and does it! Three months
ago, come Saturday, or thereabouts, she took it into her head to worst
Marg at every turn and let it out that she was goin' to round up all the
fellers and take her pick! She had the blazin' face ter come down here
and tell _me_ that! Course Marg knew it, but the two most consarned
didn't--meaning Jed and Burke. Least they suspected--but warn't sure.
Jed meant to get Burke out o' the way so he could have a clear space to
co't Nella-Rose, so he aimed to shoot one o' Burke's feet just enough to
lay him up--Jed is the slow, calculatin' kind and an almighty sure shot.
He reckoned Burke couldn't walk up Lone Dome with a sore foot, so he
laid for him, meanin' afterward to say he was huntin' an' took Burke for
a 'possum. Well, Burke got wind of the plot; I'm thinkin' Marg put a
flea in his ear, anyway he set a trap just by the path leading from the
trail to Lone Dome. Gawd! Jed planted his foot inter it same as if he
meant ter, and what does that Burke do but take a walk with Nella-Rose
right past the place where Jed was caught! 'Corse he was yellin'
somethin' terrible. They helped Jed out and I reckon Nella-Rose was
innocent enough, but Jed writ up the account 'gainst Burke and Burke
floated off for a spell. He ain't floated back yet--not _yet!_ But so
long as Nella-Rose is above ground he'll naturally cum back."

"And Nella-Rose, the little no-count; did she repay Jed, the poor cuss?"

"Nella-Rose don't repay no one--she ain't more'n half real, whatever way
you put it. But just see how this fixes a sheriff, will yo'? Knowing
what I do, I can't jail either o' them chaps with a cl'ar conscience.
Gawd! I'd like to pass a law to cage all females and only let 'em out
with a string to their legs!" Then White laughed reminiscently.

"What now, Jim?"

"Gals!" White fairly spit out the word. "Gals!" There was an eloquent
pause, then more quietly: "Jest when yo' place 'em and hate 'em proper,
they up and do somethin' to melt yo' like snow on Lone Dome in May. I
was harkin' back to the little white hen and Nella-Rose. There ain't
much chance to have a livin' pet up to Greyson's place. Anything fit to
eat is et. Pete drinks the rest. But once Nella-Rose came totin' up here
on a cl'ar, moonlight evenin' with somethin' under her little, old
shawl. 'Jim' she says--wheedlin' and coaxin'--'I want yo' to keep this
here hen fo' me. I'll bring its keep, but I love it, and I can't see
it--killed!' That gal don't never let tears fall--they jest wet her eyes
and make 'em shine. With that she let loose the most owdacious white
bantam and scattered some corn on the floor; then she sat down and
laughed like an imp when the foolish thing hopped up to her and flopped
onter her lap. Well, I kept the sassy little hen--there wasn't anything
else ter do--but one day Marg, she followed Nella-Rose up and when she
saw what was going on, she stamped in and cried out: 'So! yo' can have
playthings while us-all go starved! Yo' can steal what's our'n,--an'
with that she took the bantam and fo' I could say a cuss, she wrung that
chicken's neck right fo' Nella-Rose's eyes!"

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Conning; "the young brute! And the other
one--what did she do?"

"She jest looked at me--her eyes swimmin'. Nella-Rose don't talk much
when she's hurt, but she don't forget. I tell yo', young feller, bein' a
sheriff in this settlement ain't no joke. Yo' know folks too well and
see the rights and wrongs more'n is good for plain justice."

"Well?" Jim rose and stretched himself, "yo' won't go on the b'ar hunt
ter-morrer?"

"No, Jim, but I'll walk part of the way with you. When do you start?"

"'Bout two o' the mornin'."

"Then I'll turn in. Good-night, old man! You've given me a great
evening. I feel as if I were suddenly projected into a crowd with human
problems smashing into each other for all they're worth. You cannot
escape, old man; that's the truth. You cannot escape. Life is life no
matter where you find it."

"Now don't git ter talkin' perlite to me," Jim warned. "Old Doc
McPherson's orders was agin perlite conversation. Get a scrabble on yer!
I'll knock yer up 'bout two or thereabouts."

Outside, Truedale stood still and looked at the beauty of the night. The
moon was full and flooded the open space with a radiance which
contrasted sharply with the black shadows and the outlines of the near
and distant peaks.

The silence was so intense that the ear, straining for sound, ached from
the effort. And just then a bewitched hen in White's shed gave a weird
cry and Truedale started. He smiled grimly and thought of the little
no-count and the tragedy of the white bantam. In the shining light
around him he seemed to see her pitiful face as White had described
it--the eyes full of tears but never overflowing, the misery and hate,
the loneliness and impotency.

At two the next morning Jim tapped on Truedale's window with his gun.

"Comin' fur a walk?"

"You bet!" Con was awake at once and alert. Ten minutes later, closing
the doors and windows of his cabin after him, he joined White on the
leaf-strewn path to the woods. He went five miles and then bade his host
good-bye.

"Don't overwork!" grinned Jim sociably. "I'll write to old Doc McPherson
when I git back."

"And when will that be, Jim?"

"I ain't goin' ter predict." White set his lips. "When I stay, I stay,
but once I take ter the woods there ain't no sayin'. I'll fetch fodder
when I cum, and mail, too--but I ain't goin' ter hobble myself when I
take ter the sticks."

Tramping back alone over the wet autumn leaves, Truedale had his first
sense of loneliness since he came. White, he suddenly realized, had
meant to him everything that he needed, but with White unhobbled in the
deep woods, how was he to fill the time? He determined to force himself
to study. He had wedged one solid volume in his trunk, unknown to his
friends. He would brush up his capacity for work--it could not hurt him
now. He was as strong as he had ever been in his life and the prospect
ahead promised greater gains.

Yes, he would study. He would write letters, too--real letters. He had
neglected every one, especially Lynda Kendall. The others did not
matter, but Lynda mattered more than anything. She always would! And
thinking of Lynda reminded him that he had also, in his trunk, the play
upon which he had worked for several years during hours that should have
been devoted to rest. He would get out the play and try to breathe life
into it, now that he himself was living. Lynda had said, when last they
had discussed his work, "It's beautiful, Con; you shall not belittle it.
It is beautiful like a cold, stone thing with rough edges. Sometime you
must smooth it and polish it, and then you must pray over it and believe
in it, and I really think it will repay you. It may not mean anything
but a sure guide to your goal, but you'd be grateful for that, wouldn't
you?" Of course he would be grateful for that! It would mean life to
him--life, not mere existence. He began to hope that Jim White would
stay away a month; what with study, and the play, and the doing for
himself, the time ahead was provided for already!

Stalking noiselessly forward, Truedale came into the clearing, passed
White's shack, and approached his own with a fixed determination. Then
he stopped short. He was positive that he had closed windows and
doors--the caution of the city still clung to him--but now both doors
and windows were set wide to the brilliant autumn day and a curl of
smoke from a lately replenished fire cheerfully rose in the clear, dry
air.

"Well, I'll be--!" and then Truedale quietly slipped to the rear of
the cabin and to a low, sliding window through which he could peer,
unobserved. One glance transfixed him.




CHAPTER II


The furnishing of the room was bare and plain--a deal table, a couple of
wooden chairs, a broad comfortable couch, a cupboard with some
nondescript crockery, and a good-sized mirror in the space between the
front door and the window. Before this glass a strange figure was
walking to and fro, enjoying hugely its own remarkable reflection.
Truedale's bedraggled bath robe hung like a mantle from the shoulders of
the intruder--they were very straight, slim young shoulders; an old
ridiculous fez--an abomination of his freshman year, kept for
sentimental reasons--adorned the head of the small stranger and only
partly held in check the mass of shadowy hair that rippled from it and
around a mischievous face.

Surprise, then wonder, swayed Truedale. When he reached the wonder
stage, thought deserted him. He simply looked and kept on wondering.
Through this confusion, words presently reached him. The masquerader
within was bowing and scraping comically, and in a low, musical voice
said:

"How-de, Mister Outlander, sir! How-de? I saw your smoke a-curling way
back from home, sir, and I've come a-visiting 'long o' you, Mister
Outlander."

Another sweeping curtsey reduced Truedale to helpless mirth and he
fairly shouted, doubling up as he did so.

The effect of his outburst upon the young person within was tremendous.
She seemed turned to stone. She stared at the face in the window; she
turned red and white--the absurd fez dangling over her left ear. Then
she emitted what seemed to be one word, so lingeringly sweet was the
drawl.

"Godda'mighty!"

Seeing that there was going to be no other concession, Truedale pulled
himself together, went around to the front door and knocked,
ceremoniously. The girl turned, as if on a pivot, but spoke no word.

She had the most wonderful eyes--innocent and pleading; she was a mere
child and, although she looked awed now, was evidently a forward young
native who deserved a good lesson. Truedale determined to give her one!

"If you don't mind," he said, "I'll come in and sit down."

This he did while the big, solemn eyes followed him alertly.

"And now will you be kind enough to tell me what you mean by--wearing my
clothes?"

Still the silence and the blank stare.

"You must answer my questions!" Truedale's voice sounded stern. "I
suppose you didn't expect me back so soon?"

The deep eyes confirmed this by the drooping of the lids.

"And you broke in--what for?"

No answer.

"Who are you?"

Really the situation was becoming unbearable, so Truedale changed his
tactics. He would play with the poor little thing and reassure her.

"Now that I look at you I see what you are. You're not a human at all.
You're a spirit of something or other--probably of one of those perky
mountains over yonder. The White Maid, I bet! You had to don my clothes
in order to materialize before my eyes and you had to use that word of
the hills--so that I could understand you. It's quite plain now and you
are welcome to my--my bath robe; I dare say that, underneath it, you are
decked out in filmy clouds and vapours and mists. Oh! come now--" The
strange eyes were filling--but not overflowing!

"I was only joking. Forgive me. Why--"

The wretched fez fell from the soft hair--the bedraggled robe from the
rigid shoulders--and there, garbed in a rough home-spun gown, a little
plaid shawl and a checked apron, stood--

"It's the no-count," thought Truedale. Aloud he said, "Nella-Rose!"

With the dropping of the disguise years and dignity were added to the
girl and Truedale, who was always at his worst in the presence of
strange young women, gazed dazedly at the one before him now.

"Perhaps"--he began awkwardly--"you'll sit down. Please do!" He drew a
chair toward her. Nella-Rose sank into it and leaned her bowed head upon
her arms, which she folded on the table. Her shoulders rose and fell
convulsively, and Truedale, looking at her, became hopelessly wretched.

"I'm a beast and nothing less!" he admitted by way of apology and
excuse. "I--I wish you _could_ forgive me."

Then slowly the head was raised and to Truedale's further consternation
he saw that mirth, not anguish, had caused the shaking of those
deceiving little shoulders.

"Oh! I see--you are laughing!" He tried to be indignant.

"Yes."

"At what?"

"Everything--you!"

"Thank you!" Then, like a response, something heretofore unknown and
unsuspected in Truedale rose and overpowered him. His shyness and
awkwardness melted before the warmth and glow of the conquering emotion.
He got up and sat on the corner of the table nearest his shabby little
guest, and looking straight into her bewitching eyes he joined her in a
long, resounding laugh.

It was surrender, pure and simple.

"And now," he said at last, "you must stay and have a bite. I am about
starved. And you?"

The girl grew sober.

"I'm--I'm always hungry," she admitted softly.

They drew the table close to the roaring fire, leaving doors and windows
open to the crisp, sweet; morning air.

"We'll have a party!" Truedale announced. "I'll step over to Jim's cabin
and bring the best he's got."

When he returned Nella-Rose had placed cups, saucers, and plates on the
table.

"Do you--often have parties?" she asked.

"I never had one before. I'll have them, though, from now on if--if you
will come!"

Truedale paused with his arms full of pitchers and platters of food, and
held the girl with his admiring eyes.

"And you will let me come and see you--you and your sister and your
father? I know all about you. White has explained--everything. He--"

Nella-Rose braced herself against the table and quietly and definitely
outlined their future relations.

"No, you cannot come to see us-all. You don't know Marg. If she doesn't
find things out, there won't be trouble; when she does find things out
there's goin' t' be a right smart lot of trouble brewing!"

This was said with such comical seriousness that Truedale laughed
again, but sobered instantly when he recalled the incident of the white
bantam which Jim had so vividly portrayed.

"But you see," he replied, "I don't want to let you go after this first
party, and never see you again!"

The girl shrugged her shoulders and apparently dismissed the matter. She
sat down and, with charming abandon, began to eat. Presently Truedale,
amused and interested, spoke again:

"It would be very unkind of you not to let me see you."

"I'm--thinking!" Nella-Rose drew her brows together and nibbled a bit of
corn bread meditatively. Then--quite suddenly:

"I'm coming here!"

"You--you mean that?" Truedale flushed.

"Yes. And the big woods--you walk in them?"

"I certainly do."

"Sometimes--I am in the big woods."

"Where--specially?" Truedale was playing this new game with the foolish
skill of the novice.

"There's a Hollow--where--" (Nella-Rose paused) "where the laurel tangle
is like a jungle--"

Truedale broke in: "I know it! There's a little stream running through
it, and--trails."

"Yes!" Nella-Rose leaned back and showed her white teeth alluringly.

"I--I should not--permit this!" For a moment Truedale broke through the
thin ice of delight that was luring him to unknown danger and fell upon
the solid rock of conservatism.

"Why?" The eyes, so tenderly innocent, confronted him appealingly.
"There are nuts there and--and other things! You are just teasing;
you'll let me--show you the way about?"

The girl was all child now and made Truedale ashamed to hold her to any
absurd course that his standards acknowledged but that hers had never
conceived.

"Of course. I'll be glad to have you for a guide. Jim White has no ideas
about nuts and things--he goes to the woods to kill something; he's
there now. I dare say mere are other things in the mountains
besides--prey?"

Nella-Rose nodded.

"Let's sit by the fire!" she suddenly said. "I--I want to tell
you--something, and then I must go."

The lack of shyness and reserve might so easily have become
boldness--but they did not! The girl was like a creature of the wilds
which, knowing no reason for fear, was revelling in heretofore
unsuspected enjoyment. Truedale pulled the couch to the hearth for
Nella-Rose, piled the pillows on one end and then seated himself on the
stump of a tree which served as a settee.

"Now, then!" he said, keeping his eyes on his breezy little guest.
"What have you got to tell me--before you go?"

"It's something that happened--long ago. You will not laugh if I tell
you? You laugh right much."

"I? You think I laugh a good deal? Good Lord! Some folk think I don't
laugh enough." He had his friends back home in mind, and somehow the
memory steadied him for an instant.

"P'r'aps they-all don't know you as well as I do." This with amusing
conviction.

"Perhaps they don't." Truedale was deadly solemn. "But go on,
Nella-Rose. I promise not to laugh now."

"It was the beginning of--you!" The girl turned her eyes to the
fire--she was quaintly demure. "At first when I saw you looking in that
window, yonder, I was right scared."

Jim White's statement that Nella-Rose wasn't more than half real seemed,
in the light of present happenings, little less than bald fact.

"It was the way _you_ looked--way back there when I was ten years old. I
had run away--"

"Are you always running away?" asked Truedale from the hollow depths of
unreality.

"I run away a smart lot. You have to if you want to--see things and be
different."

"And you--you want to be different, Nella-Rose?"

"I--why, can't you see?--I _am_ different."

"Of course. I only meant--do you like to be different."

"I have to like it. I was born with a cawl."

"In heaven's name, what's that?"

"Something over your eyes, and when they take it off you see more, and
farther, than any one else. You're part ha'nt."

Truedale wiped his forehead--the room was getting hot, but the heat
alone was not responsible for his emotions; he was being carried beyond
his depth--beyond himself--by the wild fascination of the little
creature before him. He would hardly have been surprised had a draught
of air wafted her out of the window like a bit of mountain mist.

"But you mustn't interrupt so much!" She turned a stern face upon him.
"I ran away that time to see a--railroad train! One of the niggers told
me about it--he said it was the Bogy Man. I wanted to know, so I went to
the station. It's a right smart way down and I had to sleep one night
under the trees. Don't the stars look starry sometimes?"

The interruption made Truedale jump.

"They certainly do," he said, looking at the soft, dark eyes with their
long lashes.

"I wasn't afraid--and I didn't hurry. It was evening, and the sun just
a-going down, when I got to the station. There wasn't any one about so
I--I ran down the big road the train comes on--to meet it. And then"
(here Nella-Rose clasped her hands excitedly and her breath came short),
"and then I saw it a-coming and a-coming. The big fire-eye a-glaring and
the mighty noise a-snorting and I reckoned it was old Master Satan and I
just--couldn't move!"

"Go on! go on!" Truedale bent close to her--she had caught him in the
mesh of her dramatic charm.

"I saw it a-coming, and set on--on devouring o' me, and still I couldn't
stir. Everything was growing black and black except a big square with
that monster eye a-glaring into the soul o' me!"

The girl's face was set--her eyes vacant and wild; suddenly they
softened, and her little white teeth showed through the childish, parted
lips.

"Then the eye went away, there was a blackness in the square place, and
then a face came--a kind face it was--all a-laughing and it--it kept
going farther and farther off to one side and I kept a-following and
a-following and then--the big noise went rushing by me, and there I was
right safe and plump up against a tree!"

"Good Lord!" Again Truedale wiped his brow.

"Since then," Nella-Rose relaxed, "I can shut my eyes and always there
is the black square and sometimes--not always, but sometimes--things
come!"

"The face, Nella-Rose?"

"No, I can't make that come. But things I want to, do and have. I
always think, when I see things, that I'm going to do a big, fine thing
some day. I feel upperty and then--poof! off go the pictures and I am
just--lil' Nella-Rose again!"

A comically heavy sigh brought Truedale back to earth.

"But the face you saw long ago," Truedale whispered, "was it my face, do
you think?"

Nella-Rose paused--then quietly:

"I--reckon it was. Yes, I'm mighty sure it was your face. When I saw it
at that window"--she pointed across the room--"I certainly thought my
eyes were closed and that--it had come--the kind, good face that saved
me!" A sweet, friendly smile wreathed the girl's lips and she rose with
rare dignity and held out her thin, delicate hand:

"Mister Outlander, we're going to be neighbours, aren't we?"

"Yes--neighbours!" Truedale took the hand with a distinct sense of
suffocation, "but why do you call me an outlander?"

"Because--you are! You're not _of_ our mountains."

"No, I wish I were!"

"Wishing can't make you. You are--or you aren't."

Truedale noted the girl's language. Distorted and crude as it often was,
it was never positively illiterate. This surprised him.

"You--oh! you're not going yet!" He put his hand out, for the definite
way in which Nella-Rose turned was ominous. Already she seemed to belong
to the cabin room--to Truedale himself. Not a suggestion of strangeness
clung to her. It was as if she had always been there but that his eyes
had been holden.

"I must go!"

"Wait--oh! Nella-Rose. Let me walk part of the way with you. I--I have a
thousand things to say."

But she was gone out of the door, down the path.

Truedale stood and looked after her until the long shadows reached up to
Lone Dome's sharpest edge. White's dogs began nosing about, suggesting
attention to affairs nearer at hand. Then Truedale sighed as if waking
from a dream. He performed the duties Jim had left to his tender
mercy--the feeding of the animals, the piling up of wood. Then he forced
himself to take a long walk. He ate his evening meal late, and finally
sat down to his task of writing letters. He wrote six to Brace Kendall
and tore them up; he wrote one to his uncle and put it aside for
consideration when the effect of his day dreams left him sane enough to
judge it. Finally he managed a note to Dr. McPherson and one to Lynda
Kendall.

"I think"--so the letter to Lynda ran--"that I will work regularly, now,
on the play. With more blood in my own body I can hope to put more into
that. I'm going to get it out to-morrow and begin the infusion. I wish
you were here to-night--to see the wonderful effect of the moon on the
mists--but there! if I said more you might guess where I am. When I come
back I shall try to describe it and some day you must see it. Several
times lately I have imagined an existence here with one's work and
enough to subsist on. No worry, no nerve-racking, and always the
tremendous beauty to inspire one! Nothing seems wholly real here."

Then Truedale put down his pen. Nella-Rose crowded Lynda Kendall from
the field of vision; later, he simply signed his name and let the note
go with that.

As for Nella-Rose, as soon as she left Truedale, her mind turned to
sterner matters close at hand. She became aware before long of some one
near by. The person, whoever it was, seemed determined to remain hidden
but for that very reason it called out all the girl's cunning and
cleverness. It might be--Burke Lawson! With this thought Nella-Rose
gasped a little. Then, it might be Marg; and here the dark eyes grew
hard--the lips almost cruel! She got down upon her knees and crawled
like a veritable little animal of the wilds. Keeping close to the
ground, she advanced to where the trail from Lone Dome met the broader
one, and there, standing undecided and bewildered, was a tall, fair
girl.

Nella-Rose sprang to her feet, her eyes ablaze.

"Marg! What you--hounding me for?"

"Nella-Rose, where you been?"

"What's that to you?"

"You've been up to Devil-may-come Hollow!"

"Have I? Let me pass, Marg. Have your mully-grubs, if you please; I'm
going home."

As Nella-Rose tried to pass, Marg caught her by the arm.

"Burke's back!" she whispered, "he's hiding up to Devil-may-come! He's
been seen and you know it!"

"What if I do?" Nella-Rose never ignored a possible escape for the
future.

"You've been up there--to meet him. You ought to be licked. If you don't
let him alone--let him and me alone--I'll turn Jed on him, I will; I
swear it!"

"What is he--to you!" Nella-Rose confronted her sister squarely. Blue
eyes--bold, cold blue they were--looked into dark ones even now so soft
and winning that it was difficult to resist them.

"If you let him alone, he'll be everything to me!" Marg blurted out.
"What do you want of him, Nella-Rose?--of him or any other man? But if
you must have a sweetheart, pick and choose and let me have my day."

The rough appeal struck almost brutally on Nella-Rose's ears. She was as
un-moral, perhaps, as Marg, but she was more discriminating.

"I'm mighty tired of cleaning and cooking for--for father and you!"
Marg tossed her head toward Lone Dome. "Father's mostly always drunk
these days and you--what do you care what becomes of me? Leave me to get
a man of my own and then I'll be human. I've been--killing the hog
to-day!" Marg suddenly and irrelevantly burst out; "I--I shall never do
it again. We'll starve first!"

"Why didn't father?" Nella-Rose said, softly.

"Father? Huh! he couldn't have held the knife. He went for the jug--and
got it full! No, I had to do it, but it's the last time. Nella-Rose,
tell me where Burke is hidden--tell me! Leave me free to--to win him;
let me have my chance!"

"And then who'll kill the pig?" Nella-Rose shuddered.

"Who cares?" Marg flung back.

"No! Find him if you can. Fair play--no favours; what I find is open to
you!" Nella-Rose laughed impishly and, darting past her sister, ran down
the path.

Marg stood and watched her with baffled rage and hate. For a moment she
almost decided to take her chances and seek Burke Lawson in the distant
Hollow. But night was coming--the black, drear night of the low places.
Marg was desperate, but a primitive conservatism held her. Not for all
she hoped to gain would she brave Burke Lawson alone in the secret
places of Devil-may-come Hollow! So she followed after Nella-Rose and
reached home while her sister was preparing the evening meal.

Peter Greyson, the father, sat huddled in a big chair by the fire. He
had arrived at that stage of returning consciousness when he felt that
it was incumbent upon him to explain himself. He had been a handsome
man, of the dashing cavalry type and he still bore traces of past glory.
In his worst moments he never swore before ladies, and in his best he
remembered what was due them and upheld their honour and position with
fervour.

"Lil' Nella-Rose," he was saying as Marg paused outside the door in the
dark, "why don't you marry Burke Lawson and settle down here with me?"

"He hasn't asked me, father."

"He isn't in any position now to pick and choose"--this between
hiccoughs and yawns--"I saw him early this morning; I know his back
anywhere. I'd just met old Jim White. I reckon Burke was calculating to
shoot Jim, but my coming upset his plans. Shooting a sheriff ain't safe
business." What Greyson really had seen was Truedale's retreat after
parting company with Jim, but not knowing of Truedale's existence he
jumped to the conclusion which to his fuddled wits seemed probable, and
had so informed Marg upon his return.

"I tell yo', Nella-Rose," he ran on, "yo' better marry Burke and tame
him. There ain't nothing as tames a man like layin' responsibilities on
him."

"Come, father, let me help you to the table. I don't want to talk about
Burke. I don't believe he's back." She steadied the rolling form to the
head of the table.

"I tell yo', chile, I saw Burke's back; don't yo' reckon I know Lawson
when I see him, back or front? Don't yo' want ter marry Lawson,
Nella-Rose?"

"No, I wouldn't have him if he asked me. It would be like marrying a
tree that the freshet was rolling about. I'm not going to seek and hide
with any man."

"Why don't yo' let Marg have 'im then? She'd be a right smart
responsibility."

"She can have him and welcome, if she can find him!" Then, hearing her
sister outside, she called:

"Come in, Marg. Shut out the cold and the dark. What's the use of acting
like a little old hateful?"

Marg slouched in; there was no other word to describe her indifferent
and contemptuous air.

"He's coming around?" she asked, nodding at her father.

"Yes--he's come," Nella-Rose admitted.

"All right, then, I'm going to tell him something!" She walked over to
her father and stood before him, looking him steadily in the eyes.

"I--I killed the hog to-day;" she spoke sharply, slowly, as to a dense
child. Peter Greyson started.

"You--you--did that?"

"Yes. While you were off--getting drunk, and while Nella-Rose was
traipsing back there in the Hollow I killed the hog; but I'll never do
it again. It sickened the soul of me. I'm as good as Nella-Rose--just as
good. If you can't do your part, father, and she _won't_ do hers, that's
no reason for me being benastied with such work as I did to-day. You
hear me?"

"Sure I hear you, Marg, and I'm plumb humiliated that--that I let you.
It--it sha'n't happen again. I'll keep a smart watch next year. A
gentleman can't say more to his daughter than that--can he?"

"Saying is all very well--it's the doing." Marg was adamant. "I'm going
to look out for myself from now on. You and Nella-Rose will find out."

"What's come to you, Marg?" Peter looked concerned.

"Something that hasn't ever come before," Marg replied, keeping her eyes
on Nella-Rose. "There be times when you have to take your life by the
throat and strangle it until it falls into shape. I'm gripping mine
now."

"It's the killing of that hog!" groaned Peter. "It's stirred you, and I
can't blame you. Killing ain't for a lady; but Lord! what a man you'd
ha' made, Marg!"

"But I ain't!" Marg broke in a bit wildly, "and other things are not
for--for women to do and bear. I'm through. It's Nella-Rose and me to
share and share alike, or--"

But there was nothing more to say--the pause was eloquent. The three ate
in silence for some moments and then talked of trivial things. Peter
Greyson went early to bed and the sisters washed the dishes, sharing
equally. They did the out-of-door duties of caring for the scanty live
stock, and at last Nella-Rose went to her tiny room under the eaves,
while Marg lay down upon the living-room couch.

When everything was at rest once more Nella-Rose stole to the low window
of her chamber and, kneeling, looked forth at the peaceful moonlit
scene. How still and white it was and how safe and strong the high hills
looked! What had happened? Why, nothing _could_ happen and yet--and
yet--Then Nella-Rose closed her eyes and waited. With all her might she
tried to force the "good, kind face" to materialize, but to no purpose.
Suddenly an owl hooted hideously and, like a guilty thing, the girl by
the window crept back to bed.

Owls were very wise and they could see things in the dark places with
their wide-open eyes! Just then Nella-Rose could not have borne any
investigation of her throbbing heart.




CHAPTER III


Lynda Kendall closed her desk and wheeled about in her chair with a
perplexed expression on her strong, handsome face. Generally speaking,
she went her way with courage and conviction, but since Conning
Truedale's breakdown, an element in her had arisen that demanded
recognition and she had yet to learn how to control it and insist upon
its subjection.

Her life had been a simple one on the whole, but one requiring from
early girlhood the constant use of her faculties. Whatever help she had
had was gained from the dependence of others upon her, not hers upon
them. She was so strong and sweet-souled that to give was a joy, it was
a joy too, for them that received. That she was ever tired and longed
for strong arms to uphold her rarely occurred to any one except,
perhaps, William Truedale, the invalid uncle of Conning.

At this juncture of Lynda's career, she shrank from William Truedale as
she never had before. Had Conning died, she knew she would never have
seen the old man again. She believed that his incapacity for
understanding Conning--his rigid, unfeeling dealing with him--had been
the prime factor in the physical breakdown of the younger man. All
along she had hoped and believed that her hold upon old William Truedale
would, in the final reckoning, bring good results; for that reason, and
a secret one that no one suspected, she kept to her course. She paid
regular visits to the old man--made him dependent upon her, though he
never permitted her to suspect this. Always her purpose had centred upon
Con, who had, at first, appealed to her loyalty and justice, but of late
to something much more personal and tender.

The day's work was done and the workshop, in which the girl sat, was
beginning to look shadowy in the far corners where evidences of her
profession cluttered the dim spaces. She was an interior decorator, but
of such an original and unique kind that her brother explained her as a
"Spiritual and Physical Interpreter." She had learned her trade, but she
had embellished it and permitted it to develop as she herself had grown
and expanded.

Lynda looked now at her wrist-watch; it was four-thirty. The last mail
delivery had brought a short but inspiring note from Con--per Dr.
McPherson.

"I've got my grip again, Lynda! The day brings appetite and strength;
the night, sleep! I wonder whether you know what that means? I begin to
believe I am reverting to type, as McPherson would say, and I'm
intensely interested in finding out--what type? Whenever I think of
study, I have an attack of mental indigestion. There is only one fellow
creature to share my desolation but I am never lonely--never lacking
employment. I'm busy to the verge of exhaustion in doing nothing and
getting well!"

Lynda smiled. "So he's not going to die!" she murmured; "there's no use
in punishing Uncle William any longer. I'll go up and have dinner with
him!"

The decision made, and Conning for the moment relegated to second place,
Lynda rose and smiled relievedly. Then her eyes fell upon her mother's
photograph which stood upon her desk.

"I'm going, dear," she confided--they were very close, that dead mother
and the live, vital daughter--"I haven't forgotten."

The past, like the atmosphere of the room, closed in about the girl. She
was strangely cheerful and uplifted; a consciousness of approval soothed
and comforted her and she recalled, as she had not for many a day, the
night of her mother's death--the night when she, a girl of seventeen,
had had the burden of a mother's confession laid upon her young
heart....

"Lynda--are you there, dear?"

It had been a frequent, pathetic question during the month of illness.
Lynda had been summoned from school. Brace was still at his studies.

"Yes, mother, right here!"

"You are always--right here! Lyn, once I thought I could not stand it,
and I was going to run away--going in the night. As I passed your door
you awoke and asked for a drink of water. I gave it, trembling lest you
might notice my hat and coat; but you did not--you only said: 'What
would I do if I woke up some night and didn't have a mother?' Lyn, dear,
I went back and--stayed!"

Lynda had thought her mother's mind wandering so she patted the seeking
hands and murmured gently to her. Then, suddenly:

"Lyn, when I married your father I thought I loved him--but I loved
another! I've done the best I could for you all; I never let any one
know; I dared not give a sign, but I want you--by and by--to go
to--William Truedale! You need not explain--just go; you will be my gift
to him--my last and only gift."

Startled and horrified, Lynda had listened, understood, and grown old
while her mother spoke....

Then came the night when she awoke--and found no mother! She was never
the same. She returned to school but gave up the idea of going to
college. After her graduation she made a home for the father who now--in
the light of her secret knowledge--she comprehended for the first time.
All her life she had wondered about him. Wondered why she and Brace had
not loved and honoured him as they had their mother. His weakness, his
superficiality, had been dominated by the wife who, having accepted her
lot, carried her burden proudly to the end!

Brace went to college and, during his last year there, his father died;
then, confronting a future rich in debts but little else, he and Lynda
consequently turned their education to account and were soon
self-supporting, full of hope and the young joy of life.

Lynda--her mother's secret buried deep in her loyal, tender heart--began
soon after her return from school to cultivate old William Truedale,
much to that crabbed gentleman's surprise and apparent confusion. There
was some excuse for the sudden friendship, for Brace during preparatory
school and college had formed a deep and sincere attachment for Conning
Truedale and at vacation time the two boys and Lynda were much together.
To be sure the visiting was largely one-sided, as the gloomy house of
the elder Truedale offered small inducement for sociability; but Lynda
managed to wedge her way into the loneliness and dreariness and
eventually for reasons best known to herself became the one bright thing
in the old man's existence.

And so the years had drifted on. Besides Lynda's determination to prove
herself as her mother had directed, she soon decided to set matters
straight between the uncle and the nephew. To her ardent young soul,
fired with ambition and desire for justice, it was little less than
criminal that William Truedale, crippled and confined to his chair--for
he had become an invalid soon after Lynda's mother's marriage--should
misunderstand and cruelly misjudge the nephew who, brilliantly, but
under tremendous strain, was winning his way through college on a
pittance that made outside labour necessary in order to get through. She
could not understand everything, but her mother's secret, her growing
fondness for the old man, her intense interest in Conning, all held her
to her purpose. She, single-handed, would right the wrong and save them
all alive!

Then came Conning's breakdown and the possibility of his death or
permanent disability. The shock to all the golden hopes was severe and
it brought bitterness and resentment with it.

Something deep and passionate had entered into Lynda's relations with
Conning Truedale. For him, though no one suspected it, she had broken
her engagement to John Morrell--an engagement into which she had drifted
as so many girls do, at the age when thought has small part in primal
instinct. But Conning had not died; he was getting well, off in his
hidden place, and so, standing in the dim workshop, Lynda kissed her
mother's picture and began humming a glad little tune.

"I'll go and have dinner with Uncle William!" she said--the words
fitting into the tune--"we'll make it up! It will be all right." And so
she set forth.

William Truedale lived on a shabby-genteel side street of a
neighbourhood that had started out to be fashionable but had been
defeated in its ambitions. It had never lost character, but it certainly
had lost lustre. The houses themselves were well built and sternly
correct. William Truedale's was the best in the block and it stood with
a vacant lot on either side of it. The detachment gave it dignity and
seclusion.

There had been a time when Truedale hoped that the woman he loved would
choose and place furniture and hangings to her taste and his, but when
that hope failed and sickness fell upon him, he ordered only such rooms
put in order as were necessary for his restricted life. The library on
the first floor was a storehouse of splendid books and austere luxury;
beyond it were bath and bedroom, both fitted out perfectly. The long,
wide hall leading to these apartments was as empty and bare as when
carpenter and painter left it. Two servants--husband and wife--served
William Truedale, and rarely commented upon anything concerning him or
their relations to him. They probably had rooms for themselves
comfortably furnished, but in all the years Lynda Kendall had never been
anywhere in the house except in the rooms devoted to her old friend's
use. Sometimes she had wondered how Con fared, but nothing was ever
said on the subject and she and Brace had been, in their visiting,
limited to the downstair rooms.

When Lynda was ushered now into the library from the cold, outer hall it
was like finding comfort and luxury in the midst of desolation. The
opening door had not roused the man by the great open fire. He seemed
lost in a gloomy revery and Lynda had time to note, unobserved, the
tragic, pain-racked face and the pitifully thin outlines of the figure
stretched on the invalid chair and covered by a rug of rare silver fox.

There were birds in gilded cages by the large south window--mute little
mites they were; they rarely if ever sang but they were alive! There
were plants, too, luxuriously growing in pots and boxes--but not a
flower on one! They existed, not joyously, but persistently. A Russian
hound, white as snow, lay before the fire; his soft, mournful eyes were
fixed upon Lynda, but he did not stir or announce the intrusion. A cat
and two kittens, also white, were rolled like snowballs on a crimson
cushion near the hearth; Lynda wondered whether they ever played. Alone,
like a dead thing amid the still life, William Truedale, helpless--death
ever creeping nearer and nearer to his bitter heart--passed his weary
days.

As she stood, watching and waiting, Lynda Kendall's eyes filled with
quick tears. The weeks of her absence had emphasized every tragic
detail of the room and the man. He had probably missed her terribly from
his bare life, but he had made no sign, given no call.

"Uncle William!"

Truedale turned his head and fixed his deep-sunk, brilliant eyes upon
her.

"Oh! So you've thought better of it?" was all that he said.

"Yes, I've thought better of it. Will you let me stay to dinner?"

"Take off your wraps. There now! draw up the ottoman; so long as you
have a spine, rely upon it. Never lounge if you can help it."

Lynda drew the low, velvet-covered stool near the couch-chair; the hound
raised his sharp, beautiful head and nestled against her knee. Truedale
watched it--animals never came to him unless commanded--why did they go
to Lynda? Probably for the same reason that he clung to her, watched for
her and feared, with sickening fear, that she might never come again!

"I suppose, since Con's death isn't on my head, you felt that you could
forgive me, eh?"

"Well, something like that, Uncle William."

"What business is it of yours what I do with my money--or my nephew?"

These two never approached each other by conventional lines. Their
absences were periods in which to store vital topics and
questions--their meetings were a series of explosive outbursts.

"None of my business, Uncle William, but if I could not approve, why--"

"Approve! Huh! Who are you that you should judge, approve, or disapprove
your elders?"

There was no answer to this. Lynda wanted to laugh, but feared she might
cry. The hard, indignant words belied the quivering gladness of the
voice that greeted her in every tone with its relief and surrender.

"I've got a good deal to say to you, girl. It is well you came
to-day--you might otherwise have been too late. I'm planning a long
journey."

Lynda started.

"A--long journey?" she said. Through the past years, since the dread
disease had attacked Truedale, his travelling had been confined to
passing to and from bedchamber and library in the wheelchair.

"You--you think I jest?" There was a grim humour in the burning eyes.

"I do not know."

"Well, then, I'll tell you. I am quite serious. While I have been exiled
from your attentions--chained to this rock" (he struck the arms of the
chair like a passionate child), "I have reached a conclusion I have
always contemplated, more or less. Now that I have recognized that the
time will undoubtedly come when you, Con--the lot of you--will clear
out, I have decided to prove to you all that I am not quite the
dependant you think me."

"Why--what can you mean, Uncle William?"

This was a new phase and Lynda bent across the dog at her knee and put
her hand on the arm of the chair. She was frightened, aroused. Truedale
saw this and laughed a dry, mirthless laugh.

"Oh! a chair that can roll the length of this house can roll the
distance I desire to go. Money can pay for anything--anything! Thank
God, I have money, plenty of it. It means power--even to such a thing as
I am. Power, Lynda, power! It can snarl and unsnarl lives; it can buy
favour and cause terror. Think what I would have been without it all
these years. Think! Why, I have bargained with it; crushed with it;
threatened and beckoned with it--now I am going to play with it! I'm
going to surprise every one and have a gala time myself. I'm going to
set things spinning and then I'm going on a journey. It's queer" (the
sneering voice fell to a murmur), "all my prison-years I've thought of
this and planned it; the doing of it seems quite the simplest part. I
wonder now why I have kept behind the bars when, by a little exertion--a
little indifference to opinion--I might have broadened my horizon. But
good Lord! I haven't wasted time. I've studied every detail; nothing has
escaped me. This" (he touched his head--a fine, almost noble head,
covered by a wealth of white hair), "this has been doing double duty
while these" (he pointed to his useless legs) "have refused to play
their part. While I felt conscientiously responsible, I stuck to my job;
but a man has a right to a little freedom of his own!"

Lynda drew so close that her stool touched the chair. She bent her cheek
upon the shrivelled hand resting upon the arm. The excitement and
feverish banter of Truedale affected her painfully. She reproached
herself bitterly for having left him to the mercy of his loneliness and
imagination. Her interest in, her resentment for, Conning faded before
the pitiful display of feeling expressed in every tone and word of
Truedale.

The touch of the warm cheek against his hand stirred the man. His eyes
softened, his face twitched and, because the young eyes were hidden, he
permitted his gaze to rest reverently upon the bowed head. She was the
only thing on earth he loved--the only thing that cut through his crust
of hardness and despair and made him human. Then, from out the
unexpected, he asked:

"Lynda, when did you break your engagement to John Morrell?"

The girl started, but she did not change her position. She never lied or
prevaricated to Truedale--she might keep her own counsel, but when she
spoke it was simple truth.

"About six months ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was nothing to tell, Uncle William."

"There was the fact, wasn't there?"

"Oh! yes, the fact."

"Why did you do it?"

"That--is--a long story." Lynda looked up, now, and smiled the rare
smile that only the stricken man understood. Appeal, confusion, and
detachment marked it. She longed, helplessly, for sympathy and
understanding.

"Well, long stories are welcome enough here, child; especially after the
dearth of them. Ring the bell; let's have dinner. Pull down the shades
and" (Truedale gave a wide gesture) "put the live stock out! An early
meal, a long evening--what better could we add than a couple of long
stories?"

In the doing of what Truedale commanded, Lynda found a certain relief.
These visits were like grim plays, to be sure, but they were also sacred
duties. This one, after the lapse of time filled with new and strange
emotions, was a bit grimmer than usual, but it had the effect of a tonic
upon the ragged nerves of the two actors.

The round table was set by the fire--it was the manservant who attended
now; silver and glass and linen were perfect, and the simple fare
carefully chosen and prepared.

Truedale was never so much at his ease as when he presided at these
small dinners. He ate little; he chose the rarest bits for his guest; he
talked lightly--sometimes delightfully. At such moments Lynda realized
what he must have been before love and health failed him.

To-night--shut away from all else, the strain of the past weeks ignored,
the long stories deliberately pushed aside--Truedale spoke of the books
he had been reading; Lynda, of her work.

"I have two wonderful houses to do," she said, poising a morsel of food
gracefully. "One is for a couple recently made rich; they do not dare to
move for fear of going wrong. I have that place from garret to cellar.
It's an awful responsibility--but lots of fun!"

"It must be. Spending other people's money and making them as good as
new at the same time, must be rare sport. And the other contract?"

"Oh! that is another matter." Lynda leaned back and laughed. "I'm toning
up an old house. Putting false fronts on, a bit of rouge, filling in
wrinkles; in short, giving a side-tracked old lady something to interest
her. She doesn't know it, but I'm letting her do the work, and she's
very happy. She has a kind of rusty good taste. I'm polishing it without
hurting her. The living room! Why, Uncle William, it is a picture. It is
a tender dream come true."

"And you are charging for that, you pirate?"

"I do not have to. The dear soul is so grateful that I'm forced to
refuse favours."

"Lynda, ring for Thomas." Truedale drew his brows close. "I think
I'll--I'll smoke. It may help me to sleep after the long stories
and--when I am alone." He rarely indulged in this way--tobacco excited
instead of soothed him--but the evening must have all the clear thought
possible!




CHAPTER IV


Lynda sat again upon her ottoman--her capacity for sitting hours without
a support to her back had always been one of her charms for William
Truedale. The old man looked at her now; how strong and fine she was!
How reliant and yet--how appealing! How she would always give and
give--be used to the breaking point--and rarely understood. Truedale
understood her through her mother!

"I want to ask you, Lynda, why do you come here--you of all the world? I
have often wondered."

"I--I like to come, generally, Uncle William."

"But--other times, out of the general? You come oftener then. Why?"

And now Lynda turned her clear, dark eyes upon him. A sudden resolve had
been taken. She was going to comfort him as she never had before, going
to recompense him for the weeks just past when she had failed him while
espousing Con's cause. She was going to share her secret with him!

"Just before mother went, Uncle William, she told me--"

The hand holding the cigar swayed--it was a very frail, thin hand.

"Told you--what?"

"That you once--loved her."

The old wound ached as it was bared. Lynda meant to comfort, but she was
causing excruciating pain.

"She--told you that? And you so young! Why should she so burden you--she
of all women?"

"And--my mother loved you, Uncle William! She found it out too late
and--and after that she did her best for--for Brace and me and--father!"

The room seemed swaying, as all else in the universe was, at that
moment, for William Truedale. Everything that had gone to his
undoing--to the causing of his bitter loneliness and despair--was beaten
down by the words that flooded the former darkness with almost
terrifying light. For a moment or two he dared not speak--dared not
trust his voice. The shock had been great. Then, very quietly:

"And--and why did she--speak at the last?"

Lynda's eyes filled with tears.

"Because," she faltered, "since she could not have come to you without
dishonour--she sent me! Her confidence has been the sacredest thing in
my life and I have tried to do as she desired. I--I have failed
sadly--lately, but try to forgive me for--my mother's sake!"

"And you--have"--the voice trembled pitifully in spite of the effort
Truedale made to steady it--"kept silence--since she went; why? Oh!
youth is so ignorant, so cruel!" This was said more to himself than to
the girl by his knee upon whose bowed head his shrivelled hand
unconsciously rested.

"First it was for father that I kept the secret. He seemed so stricken
after--after he was alone. And then--since I was trying to be to you
what mother wanted me to be--it did not seem greatly to matter. I wanted
to win my way. I always meant to tell you, and now, after these weeks of
misunderstanding, I felt you should know that there will always be a
reason for me, of all the world, to share your life."

"I see! I see!" A great wave of emotion rose and rose, carrying the past
years of misery with it. The knowledge, once, might have saved him, but
now it had come too late. By and by he would be able to deal with this
staggering truth that had been so suddenly hurled upon him, but not now
while Katherine Kendall's daughter knelt at his side!

"Lynda, I cannot talk to you about this. When you are older--when life
has done its best or its worst for you--you will understand better than
you do to-day; but remember this: what you have told me has cut deep,
but it has cut, by one stroke, the hardness and bitterness from my
heart. Remember this!"

Then with a sudden reversion to his customary manner he said:

"And now tell me about Morrell."

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.

"I did not know about that," was all she said.

"It doesn't matter--only I'm glad I can feel sorry for him and angry at
you. I never knew you could be a fool, Lynda."

"I dare say we all can, if we put our minds to it--sometimes without.
Well! that's the whole story, Uncle William."

"It's only the preface. See here, Lynda, did it ever strike you that a
woman like you doesn't come to such a conclusion as you have without an
experience--a contrast to go by?"

"I--I do not know what you mean, Uncle William."

"I think you do. I have no right to probe, but I have a right to--to
help you if I can. You've done much for your mother; can you deny me
the--the honour of doing something for her?"

"There's nothing--to do."

"Let us see! You're just a plain girl when all's said and done. You've
got a little more backbone and wit than some, but your heart's in the
same place as other women's and you're no different in the main. You
want the sane, right things just as they do--home, children, and
security from the things women dread. A man can give a woman a chance
for her best development; she ought to recognize that and--yes--appreciate
it."

"Surely!" this came very softly from the lips screened now by two cold
shivering hands. "A woman does recognize it; she appreciates it, but
that does not exclude her from--choice."

"One man--of course within limits and reason--is as good as another when
he loves a woman and makes her love him. You certainly thought you
loved Morrell. You had nothing to gain unless you did. You probably
earned as much as he."

"That's true. All quite true."

"Then something happened!" Truedale flung his half-smoked cigar in the
fire. "What was it, Lynda?"

"There--was nothing--really--"

"There was something. There was--Con!"

"Oh! how--how can you?" Lynda started back. She meant to say "How dare
you?"--but the drawn and tortured face restrained her.

"Because I must, Lynda. Because I must. You know I told you I had a
story? You must bear with me and listen. Sit down again and try to
remember--I am doing this for your mother! I repeat--there was Con. At
first you took up arms for him as Brace did; your sex instincts were not
awakened. You were all good fellows together until you drifted,
blindfolded, into the trap poor Morrell set for you. You thought I was
ill-treating Con--disregarding his best interests--starving his soul!
Oh! you poor little ignoramus; the boy never had a soul worth mentioning
until it got awakened, in self-defense, and grew its own limit. What did
you and Brace know of the past--the past that went into Con's making?
You were free enough with your young condemnation and misplaced
loyalty--but how about justice?"

Lynda's eyes were fixed upon Truedale's face. She had never seen him in
this mood and, while he fascinated, he overawed her.

"Why, girl, Con's father, my younger brother, was as talented as Con,
but he was a scamp. He had money enough to pave the way to his own
destruction. Until it was gone he spurned me--spurned even his own
genius. He married a woman as mad as himself and then--without a
qualm--tossed her aside to die. He had no sense of responsibility--no
shame. He had temperament--a damnable one--and he drifted on it to the
end. When it was all over, I brought Conning here. Just at that
time--well, it was soon after your mother married your father--this
creeping disease fell upon me. If it hadn't been for the boy I'd have
ended the whole thing then and there, but with the burden laid upon me I
couldn't slip out. It has been a kind of race ever since--this menace
mounting higher and higher and the making of Con keeping pace. I swore
that if he had talent it must prove itself against hardship, not in
luxury. I made life difficult in order to toughen and inspire. I never
meant to kill--you must do me that justice. Only you see, chained here,
I couldn't follow close enough, and Con had pride, thank God! and he
thought he had hate--but he hasn't or he'd have starved rather than
accept what I offered. In his heart he--well, let us say--respects me to
a certain extent. I saw him widening the space between himself and his
inheritance--and it has helped me live; you saw him making a man of
himself and it became more absorbing than the opportunity of annexing
yourself to a man already made. Oh, I have seen it all and it has helped
me in my plan."

"Your--plan?" The question was a feeble attempt to grapple with a
situation growing too big and strong. "Your plan--what is your plan?"

"Lynda, I have made my will! Sitting apart and looking on, the doing of
this has been the one great excitement of my life. Through the years I
have believed I was doing it alone; now I see your mother's guiding hand
has led me on; I want you to believe this as--I do!"

"I--I will try, Uncle William." Lynda no longer struggled against that
which she could not understand. She felt it must have its way with her.

"This house," Truedale was saying, "was meant for your mother. I left it
bare and ready for her taste and choice. After--I go, I want you to fit
it out for her--and me! You must do it at once."

"No! No!" Lynda put up a protesting hand, but Truedale smiled her into
silence and went on: "I may let you begin to-morrow and not wait! You
must fill the bare corners--spare no expense. You and I will be quite
reckless; I want this place to be a--home at last."

And now Lynda's eyes were shining--her rare tears blinded her.

"You have always tried indirectly, Lynda, to secure Con's greatest good;
you have done it! I mean to leave him a legacy of three thousand a year.
That will enable him to let up on himself and develop the talent you
think he has. I have seen to it that the two faithful souls who have
served me here shall never know want. There will be money, and plenty of
it, for you to carry out my wishes regarding this house,
should--well--should anything happen to me! After these details are
attended to, my fortune, rather a cumbersome one, goes to--Dr.
McPherson, my old and valued friend!"

Lynda started violently.

"To--to Dr. McPherson?" she gasped, every desire for Conning up in arms.

"There! there! do not get so excited, Lynda. It is only for--three
years. McPherson and I understand."

"And then?"

"It will go to Conning--if--"

"If what?" Lynda was afraid now.

"If he--marries you!"

"Oh! this is beyond endurance! How could you be so cruel, Uncle
William?" The hot, passionate tears were burning the indignant face.

"He will not know. The years will test and prove him."

"But I shall know! If you thought best to do this thing, why have you
told me?"

"There have been hours when I myself did not know why; I understand
to-night. Your mother led me!"

"My mother could never have hurt me so. Never!"

"You must trust--her and me, Lynda."

"Suppose--oh! suppose--Con does not ... Oh! this is degrading!"

"Then the fortune will--be yours. McPherson and I have worked this
out--most carefully."

"Mine! Mine! Why"--and here Lynda flung her head back and laughed
relievedly--"I refuse absolutely to accept it!"

"In that case it goes--to charities."

A hush fell in the room. Baffled and angry, Lynda dared not trust
herself to speak and Truedale sank back wearily. Then came a rattle of
wheels in the quiet street--a toot of a taxi horn.

"Thomas has not forgotten to provide for your home trip; but the man can
wait. The night is mild"--Truedale spoke gently--"and you and I are
rich."

Lynda did not seem to hear. Her thoughts were rushing wildly over the
path set for her by her old friend's words.

"Conning would not know!" she grasped and held to that; "he would be
able to act independently. At first it had seemed impossible. Her
knowledge could affect no one but herself! If"--and here Lynda breathed
faster--"if Conning should want her enough to ask her to share his life
that the three thousand dollars made possible, why then the happiness
of bringing his own to him would be hers!--hers!"

Again the opposite side of the picture held her. "But suppose he did
_not_ want her--in that way? Then she, his friend--the one who, in all
the world, loved him the best--would profit by it; she would be a
wealthy woman, for her mother's sake or"--the alternative staggered
her--"she could let everything slip, everything and bear the
consequences!"

At this point she turned to Truedale and asked pitifully again:

"Oh! why, why did you do this?"

There was no anger or rebellion in the words, but a pathos that caused
the old man to close his eyes against the pleading in the uplifted face.
It was the one thing he could not stand.

"Time will prove, child; time will prove. I could not make you
understand; your mother might have--I could not. But time will show.
Time is a strange revealer. All my life I have been working in darkness
until--now! I should have trusted more--you must learn from me.

"There, do not keep the man waiting longer. I wonder--do not do it
unless you want to, or think it right--but I wonder if you could kiss me
good-bye?"

Lynda rose and, tear-blinded, bent over and kissed him--kissed him
twice, once for her mother!--and she felt that he understood. She had
never touched her lips to his before, and it seemed a strange ceremony.

An hour later Truedale called for Thomas and was wheeled to his bedroom
and helped to bed.

"Perhaps," he said to the man, "you had better put those drops on the
stand. If I cannot sleep--" Thomas smiled and obeyed. There had been a
time when he feared that small, dark bottle, but not now! He believed
too sincerely in his master's strength of character. Having the medicine
near might, by suggestion, help calm the restlessness, but it had never
been resorted to, so Thomas smiled as he turned away with a cheery:

"Very well, sir; but there will be no need, I hope."

"Good-night, Thomas. Raise the shade, please. It's a splendid night,
isn't it? If they should build on that rear lot I could not see the moon
so well. I may decide to buy that property."

When Thomas had gone and he was alone at last, Truedale heaved a heavy
sigh. It seemed to relieve the restraint under which he had been
labouring for weeks.

All his life the possibility of escape from his bondage had made the
bondage less unendurable. It was like knowing of a secret passage from
his prison house--an exit dark and attended by doubts and fears, but
nevertheless a sure passage to freedom. It had seemed, in the past, a
cowardly thing to avail himself of his knowledge--it was like going
with his debts unpaid. But now, in the bright, moonlit room it no
longer appeared so. He had finished his task, had ended the bungling,
and had heard a clear call ringing with commendation and approval. There
was nothing to hold him back!

Over in the cabinet by the window were a photograph and a few letters;
Truedale turned toward them and wondered if Lynda, instead of his old
friend McPherson, would find them? He wished he had spoken--but after
all, he could not wait. He had definitely decided to take the journey!
But he spoke softly as if to a Presence:

"And so--you played a part? Poor girl! how well--you played it! And
you--suffered--oh! my God--and I never did you the justice of
understanding. And you left your girl--to me--I have tried not to fail
you there, Katherine!"

Then Truedale reached for the bottle. He took a swallow of the contents
and waited! Presently he took another and a thrill of exhilaration
stirred his sluggish blood. Weakly, gropingly, he stretched his benumbed
hand out again; he was well on his way now. The long journey was begun
in the moonlight and, strange to say, it did not grow dark, nor did he
seem to be alone. This surprised him vaguely, he had always expected it
would be so different!

And by and by one face alone confronted him--it was brighter than the
moonlit way. It smiled understandingly--it, too, had faced the broad
highway--it could afford to smile.

Once more the heavy, dead-cold hand moved toward the stand beside the
bed, but it fell nerveless ere it reached what it sought.

The escape had been achieved!




CHAPTER V


The days passed and, unfettered, Jim White remained in the deep woods.
After Nella-Rose's disturbing but thrilling advent, Truedale rebounded
sharply and, alone in his cabin, brought himself to terms. By a rigid
arraignment he relegated, or thought he had relegated, the whole matter
to the realm of things he should not have permitted, but which had done
no real harm. He brought out the heavy book on philosophy and
endeavoured to study. After a few hours he even resorted to the wet
towel, thinking that suggestion might assist him, but Nella-Rose
persistently and impishly got between his eyes and the pages and flouted
philosophy by the magic of her superstition and bewitching charm.

Then Truedale attacked his play, viciously, commandingly. This was more
successful. He reconstructed his plot somewhat--he let Nella-Rose in!
Curbed and somewhat re-modelled, she materialized and, while he dealt
strictly with her, writing was possible.

So the first day and night passed. On the second day Truedale's new
strength demanded exercise and recreation. He couldn't be expected to
lock himself in until White returned to chaperone him. After all, there
was no need of being a fool. So he packed a gunny sack with food and a
book or two, and sallied forth, after providing generously for the live
stock and calling the dogs after him.

But Truedale was unaware of what was going on about him. Pine Cone
Settlement had, since the trap episode, been tense and waiting. Not many
things occurred in the mountains and when they did they were made the
most of. With significant silence the friends and foes of Burke Lawson
were holding themselves in check until he returned to his old haunts;
then there would be considerable shooting--not necessarily fatal, a
midnight raid or two, a general rumpus, and eventually, a truce.

All this Jim White knew, and it was the propelling factor that had sent
him to the deep woods. His sentiments conflicted with duty. Guilty as
Lawson was, the sheriff liked him better than he did Martin and he
meant, should he come across Burke in "the sticks," to take him off for
a bear hunt and some good advice. Thus he would justify his conscience
and legal duties. But White, strange to say, was as ignorant as Truedale
was of an element that had entered into conditions. It had never
occurred to Jim to announce or explain his visitor's arrival. To Pine
Cone a "furriner" aroused at best but a superficial interest and, since
Truedale had arrived, unseen, at night, why mention him to a community
that could not possibly have anything in common with him? So it was
that Greyson and a few others, noting Truedale at a distance and losing
sight of him at once, concluded that he was Burke, back and in hiding;
and a growing but stealthy excitement was in the air. He was supposed by
both factions to be with the sheriff, and feeling ran high. In the final
estimate, could White have known it, he himself held no small part!

Beloved and hated, Lawson divided the community for and against himself
about equally. There were those who defended and swore they would kill
any who harmed the young outlaw--he was of the jovial, dare-devil type
and as loyal to his friends as he was unyielding to his foes. Others
declared that the desperado must be "finished"; the trap disagreement
was but the last of a long list of crimes; it was time to put a quietus
on one who refused to fall into line--who called the sheriff his friend
and had been known to hobnob with revenue men! That, perhaps, was the
blackest deed to be attributed to any native.

So all Pine Cone was on the war path and Truedale, heedless and unaware,
took his air and exercise at his peril.

The men of the hills had a clear case now, since Peter Greyson had given
his evidence, which, by the way, became more conclusive hour by hour as
imagination, intoxication, and the delight of finding himself important,
grew upon Greyson.

"Jim told me," Peter had confided to Jed Martin, "that he was going to
get a posse from way-back and round Lawson up."

This was wholly false. White never took any one into his business
secrets, least of all Greyson for whom he had deep contempt. "But I
don't call that clean to us-all, Jed. We don't want strangers to catch
Burke; we don't want them to--to string him up or shoot him full of
holes; what we-all want is to force White to hand him over to justice,
give him a fair trial, and then send him to one of them prison traps to
eat his soul out behind bars. Jed--just you shut your eyes and _see_
Burke Lawson behind bars--eating sop from a pan, drinking prison
water--just you call that picture up."

Jed endeavoured to do so and it grew upon his imagination.

"We-all wants to trail him," Greyson continued, "we don't want to give
him a free passage to Kingdom-Come by rope or shot--we-all want prison
for Lawson, prison!"

As Jed was the one most concerned, this edict went abroad by mountain
wireless.

"Catch him alive!" Friend and foe were alert.

"And when all's fixed and done--when Burke's trapped," Greyson said,
"what you going to do--for me, Jed?"

This was a startling, new development.

"I didn't reckon yo' war doin' this--fur pay!" Jed faltered. Then
Greyson came forth:

"No pay, Jed. Gawd knows I do my duty as I see it. But being keen about
duty, I see more than one duty. When you catch and cage Lawson, Jed, I
want to be something closer to you than a friend."

"Closer than--" Jed gasped.

"And duty drives me to confess to you, Jed, that the happiness of a lady
is at stake."

Jed merely gaped now. Visions of Nella-Rose made him giddy and
speechless.

"The day you put Lawson in jail, Jed, that day I'll give you the hand of
my daughter. She loves you; she has confessed! You shall come here and
share--everything! The hour that Burke is convicted--Marg is yours!"

"Marg!" The word came on a gasp.

"Not a word!" Greyson waved his hand in a princely way--this gesture was
an heirloom from his ancestry. "I understand your feelings--I've seen
what has been going on--but naturally I want my daughter to marry one
worthy of her. You shall have my Marg when you have proven yourself!
I've misjudged you, Jed, but this will wipe away old scores."

With a sickening sense of being absorbed, Jed sank into black silence.
If Marg wanted him and old Greyson was helping her, there was no hope!
Blood and desire would conquer every time; every mountaineer recognized
that!

And so things were seething under a surface of deadly calm, when
Truedale, believing that he had himself well in control, packed his
gunny sack and started forth for a long tramp. He had no particular
destination in mind--in fact, the soft, dreamy autumn day lulled him to
mental inertia--he simply went along, but he went as directly toward the
rhododendron slick as though he had long planned his actions. However,
it was late afternoon before he came upon Nella-Rose.

On the instant he realized that he had been searching for her all day.
His stern standards crumbled and became dry dust. One might as well
apply standards to flickering sunlight or to swirling trifles of
mountain mist as to Nella-Rose. She came upon him gaily; the dogs had
discovered her on one of their ventures and were now quietly
accompanying her.

"I--I've been looking for you--all day!" Truedale admitted, with truth
but indiscretion. And then he noted, as he had before, the strange
impression the girl gave of having been blown upon the scene. The
pretty, soft hair resting on the cheek in a bewildering curve; the
large, dreamy eyes and black lashes; the close clinging of her shabby
costume, as if wrapped about her slim body by the playful gale that had
wafted her along; all held part in the illusion.

"I had to--to lead Marg to Devil-may-come Hollow. She's hunting there
now!" Nella-Rose's white teeth showed in a mischievous smile. "We're
right safe with Marg down there, scurrying around. Come, I know a sunny
place--I want to tell you about Marg."

Her childish appropriation of him completed Truedale's surrender. The
absolute lack of self-consciousness drove the last remnant of caution
away. They found the sunny spot--it was like a dimple in a hill that had
caught the warmth and brightness and held them always to the exclusion
of shadows. It almost seemed that night could never conquer the nook.

And while they rested there, Nella-Rose told him of the belief of the
natives that he was the refugee Lawson.

"And Marg would give you up like--er--this" (Nella-Rose puffed an
imaginary trifle away with her pretty pursed lips). "She trailed after
me all day--she lost me in a place where hiding's good--and there I left
her! She'll tell Jed Martin this evening when she gets back. Marg is
scenting Burke for Jed and his kind to catch--that's her way and Jed's!"
Stinging contempt rang in the girl's voice.

"But not your way I bet, Nella-Rose." The fun, not the danger, of the
situation struck Truedale.

"No!--I'd do it all myself! I'd either warn him and have done with it,
or I'd stand by him."

"I'm not sure that I like the misunderstanding about me," Truedale half
playfully remarked, "they may shoot me in the back before they find
out."

"Do you" (and here Nella-Rose's face fell into serious, dangerously
sweet, lines), "do you reckon I would leave you to them-all if there was
that danger? They don't aim to shoot or string Burke up; they reckon
they'll take him alive and--get him locked up in jail to--to--"

"What, Nella-Rose?"

"Die of longing!"

"Is that what would happen to Burke Lawson?"

The girl nodded. Then the entrancing mischief returned to her eyes and
she became a child once more--a creature so infinitely young that
Truedale seemed grandfatherly by comparison.

"Can't you see how mighty funny it will be to lead them and let them
follow on and then some day--they'll plump right up on you and find out!
Godda'mighty!"

Irresponsible mirth swayed the girl to and fro. She laughed, silently,
until the tears stood in the clear eyes. Truedale caught the spirit of
her mood and laughed with her. The picture she portrayed of setting
jealousy, malice, and stupidity upon the wrong trail was very funny, but
suddenly he paused and said seriously:

"But in the meantime this Burke Lawson may return; you may be the death
of him with your pranks."

Nella-Rose shook her head. "I would know!" she declared confidently. "I
know everything that's going on in the hills. Burke would let me
know--first!"

"It's like melodrama," Truedale murmured half to himself. By some trick
of fancy he seemed to be looking on as Brace Kendall might have. The
thought brought him to bay. What would good old Brace do in the present
situation?

"What is melodrama?" Nella-Rose never let a new word or suggestion
escape her. She was as keen as she was dramatic and mischievous.

"It would be hard to make you understand--but see here"--Truedale drew
the gunny sack to him--"I bet you're hungry!" He deliberately put Brace
from his thoughts.

"I reckon I am." The lovely eyes were fixed upon the hand that was
bringing forth the choicest morsels of the food prepared early that
morning. As he laid the little feast before her, Truedale acknowledged
that, in a vague way, he had been saving the morsels for Nella-Rose even
while he had fed, earlier, upon coarser fare.

"I don't know about giving you a chicken wing!" he said playfully. "You
look as if you were about to fly away as it is--but unfortunately I've
eaten both legs!"

"Oh! please"--Nella-Rose reached across the narrow space separating
them, she was pleading prettily--"I just naturally admire wings!"

"I bet you do! Well, eat plenty of bread with them. And see here,
Nella-Rose, while you are eating I'm going to read a story to you. It is
the sort of thing that we call melodrama."

"Oh!" This through the dainty nibbling of the coveted wing. "I'm right
fond of stories."

"Keep quiet now!" commanded Truedale and he began the spirited tale of
love and high adventure that, like the tidbits, he knew he had brought
for Nella-Rose!

The warm autumn sun fell upon them for a full hour, then it shifted and
the chill of the approaching evening warned the reader of the flight of
time. He stopped suddenly to find that his companion had long since
forgotten her hunger and food. Across the debris she bent, absorbed and
tense. Her hands were clasped close--cold, little hands they were--and
her big eyes were strained and wonder-filled.

"Is that--all?" she asked, hoarsely.

"Why, no, child, there's more."

"Go on!"

"It's too late! We must get back."

"I--I must know the rest! Why, don't you see, you know how it turns out;
I don't!"

"Shall I tell you?"

"No, no. I want it here with the warm sun and the pines and
your--yourself making it real."

"I do not understand, Nella-Rose!" But as he spoke Truedale began to
understand and it gave him an uneasy moment. He knew what he ought to
do, but knew that he was not going to do it! "We'll have to come again
and hear the rest," was what he said.

"Yes? Why"--and here the shadowy eyes took on the woman-look, the look
that warned and lured the man near her--"I did not know it ever came
like that--really."

"What, Nella-Rose?"

"Why--love. They-all knew it--and took it. It was just like it was
something all by itself. That's not the sort us-all have. Does it only
come that--er--way in mel--melerdrammer?"

"No, little girl. It comes that way in real life when hearts are big
enough and strong enough to bear it." Truedale watched the effect of his
words upon the strange, young face before him. They forced their way
through her ignorance and untrained yearning for love and admiration. It
was a perilous moment, for conscience, on Truedale's part, seemed
drugged and sleeping and Nella-Rose was awakening to that which she had
never known before. Gone, for her, were caprice and mischief; she seemed
about to see and hear some wonderful thing that eluded but called her
on.

And after that first day they met often. "Happened upon each other" was
the way Truedale put it. It seemed very natural. The picturesque spots
appealed to them both. There was reading, too--carefully selected bits.
It was intensely interesting to lead the untrained mind into bewildering
mazes--to watch surprise, wonder, and perplexity merge into
understanding and enjoyment. Truedale experienced the satisfaction of
seeing that, for the first time in his life, he was a great power. The
thought set his brain whirling a bit, but it made him seriously humble
as well.

Gradually his doubts and introspections became more definite; he lived
day by day, hour by hour; while Jim White tarried, Nella-Rose remained;
and the past--Truedale's past--faded almost from sight. He could hardly
realize, when thinking of it afterward, where and how he decided to cut
loose from his past, and all it meant, and accept a future almost
ludicrously different from anything he had contemplated.

One day a reference to Burke Lawson was made and, instead of letting it
pass as heretofore, he asked suddenly of Nella-Rose:

"What is he to you?"

The girl flushed and turned away.

"Burke?--oh, Burke isn't--anything--now!"

"Was he ever--anything?"

"I reckon he wasn't; I _know_ he wasn't!"

Then, like a flash, Truedale believed he understood what had happened.
This simple girl meant more to him than anything else--more than the
past and what it held! A baser man would not have been greatly disturbed
by this knowledge; a man with more experience and background would have
understood it and known that it was a phase that must be dealt with
sternly and uncompromisingly, but that it was merely a phase and as such
bound to pass. Not so Truedale. He was stirred to the roots of his
being; every experience was to him a concrete fact and, consequently,
momentous. In order to keep pure the emotions that overpowered him at
times, he must renounce all that separated him from Nella-Rose and
reconstruct his life; or--he must let _her_ go!

Once Truedale began to reason this out, once he saw Nella-Rose's
dependence upon him--her trust and happiness--he capitulated and
permitted his imagination to picture and colour the time on ahead. He
refused to turn a backward glance.

Of course all this was not achieved without struggle and foreboding; but
he saw no way to hold what once was dear, without dishonour to that
which now was dearer; and he--let go!

This determined, he strenuously began to prepare himself for the change.
Day by day he watched Nella-Rose with new and far-seeing interest--not
always with love and passion-blinded eyes. He felt that she could, with
his devotion and training, develop into a rarely sweet and fine woman.
He was not always a fool in his madness; at times he was wonderfully
clear-sighted. He meant to return home, when once his health was
restored, and take the Kendalls into his confidence; but the thought of
Lynda gave him a bad moment now and then. He could not easily depose her
from the most sacred memories of his life, but gradually he grew to
believe that her relations to him were--had always been--platonic; and
that she, in the new scheme, would play no small part in his life and
Nella-Rose's.

There would be years of self-denial and labour and then, by and by,
success would be achieved. He would take his finished work, and in this
he included Nella-Rose, back to his old haunts and prove his wisdom and
good fortune. In short, Truedale was love-mad--ready to fling everything
to the ruthless winds of passion. He blindly called things by wrong
names and steered straight for the rocks.

He meant well, as God knew; indeed all the religious elements, hitherto
unsuspected in him, came to the fore now. Conventions were absurd when
applied to present conditions, but, once having accepted the inevitable,
the way was divinely radiant. He meant to pay the price for what he
yearned after. He had no other intention.

Now that he was resigned to letting the past go, he could afford to
revel in the joys of the present with a glad sense of responsibility for
the future.

Presently his course seemed so natural that he wondered he had ever
questioned it. More and more men with a vision--and Truedale devoutly
believed he had the vision--were recognizing the absurdity of old
ideals.

Back to the soil meant more than the physical; it meant back to the
primitive, the simple, the real. The artificial exactions of society
must be spurned if a new and higher morality were to be established.

If Truedale in this state of mind had once seen the actual danger, all
might have been well; but he had swung out of his orbit.

At this juncture Nella-Rose was puzzling her family to the extent of
keeping her father phenomenally sober and driving Marg to the verge of
nerve exhaustion.

The girl had, to put it in Greyson's words, "grown up over night." She
was dazzling and recalled a past that struck deep in the father's heart.

There had been a time when Peter Greyson, a mere boy, to be sure--and
before the cruel war had wrecked the fortunes of his family--had been
surrounded by such women as Nella-Rose now suggested. Women with dancing
eyes and soft, white hands. Women born and bred for love and homage, who
demanded their privileges with charm and beauty. There had been one
fascinating woman, a great-aunt of Nella-Rose's, who had imperilled the
family honour by taking her heritage of worship with a high hand.
Disregarding the rights of another, she boldly rode off with the man of
her choice and left the reconstruction of her reputation to her kith and
kin who roused instantly to action and lied, like ladies and gentlemen,
when truth was impossible. Eventually they so toned down and polished
the deed of the little social highwaywoman as to pass her on in the
family history with an escutcheon shadowed only, rather than smirched.

Nella-Rose, now that her father considered, was dangerously like her
picturesque ancestress! The thought kept Peter from the still, back in
the woods, for many a day. He, poor down-at-heel fellow, was as ready as
any man of his line to protect women, especially his own, but he was
sorely perplexed now.

Was it Burke Lawson who, from his hiding place, was throwing a glamour
over Nella-Rose?

Then Peter grew ugly. The protection of women was one thing; ridding the
community of an outlaw was another. Men knew how to deal with such
matters and Greyson believed himself to be very much of a man.

"Nella-Rose," he said one day as he smoked reflectively and listened to
his younger daughter singing a camp meeting hymn in a peculiarly sweet
little voice, "when my ship comes in, honey, I'm going to buy you a
harp. A gold one."

"I'd rather have a pink frock, father, and a real hat; I just naturally
hate sunbonnets! I'd favour a feather on my hat--flowers fade right
easy."

"But harps is mighty elegant, Nella-Rose. Time was when your--aunts
and--and grandmothers took to harps like they was their daily
nourishment. Don't you ever forget that, Nella-Rose. Harps in families
mean _blood_, and blood don't run out if you're careful of it."

Nella-Rose laughed, but Marg, in the wash-house beyond, listened
and--hated!

No one connected _her_ with harps or blood, but she held, in her sullen
heart and soul, the true elements of all that had gone into the making
of the best Greysons. And as the winter advanced, Marg, worn in mind and
body, was brought face to face with stern reality. Autumn was
gone--though the languorous hours belied it. She must prepare. So she
gathered her forces--her garden products that could be exchanged for
necessities; the pork; the wool; all, all that could be spared, she must
set in circulation. So she counted three dozen eggs and weighed ten
pounds of pork and called Nella-Rose, who was driving her mad by singing
and romping outside the kitchen door.

"You--Nella-Rose!" she called, "are you plumb crazy?"

Nella-Rose became demure at once and presented herself at the door.

"Do I look it?" she said, turning her wonderful little face up for
inspection. Something in the words and in the appealing beauty made Marg
quiver. Had happiness and justice been meted out to Marg Greyson she
would have been the tenderest of sisters to Nella-Rose. Several years
lay between them; the younger girl was encroaching upon the diminishing
rights of the older. The struggle between them was as old as life
itself, but it could not kill utterly what should have existed ardently.

"You got to tote these things"--Marg held forth the basket--"down to the
Centre for trade, and you can fetch back the lil' things like pepper,
salt, and sugar. Tell Cal Merrivale to fetch the rest and bargain for
what I've got ready here, when he drives by. If you start now you can be
back by sundown."

To Marg's surprise, Nella-Rose offered no protest to the seven-mile
walk, nor to the heavy load. She promptly pulled her sunbonnet to the
proper angle on her head and gripped the basket.

"Ain't you goin' to eat first?" asked Marg.

"No. Put in a bite; I'll eat it by the way."

As the Centre was in the opposite direction from the Hollow, as seven
miles going and seven miles coming would subdue the spirits and energy
even of Nella-Rose, Marg was perplexed. However, she prepared food,
tucked it in the basket, and even went so far as to pin her sister's
shawl closely under her chin. Then she watched the slim, straight figure
depart--still puzzled but at peace for the day, at least.

Nella-Rose, however, was plotting an attack upon Truedale quite out of
the common. By unspoken consent he and she had agreed that their
meetings should be in the open. Jim White might return at anytime and
neither of them wanted at first to include him in the bewildering drama
of their lives. For different reasons they knew that Jim's cold
understanding of duty would shatter the sacred security that was all
theirs. Truedale meant to confide everything to White upon his
return--meant to rely upon him in the reconstruction of his life; but he
knew nothing could be so fatal to the future as any conflict at the
present with the sheriff's strict ideas of conduct. As for Nella-Rose,
she had reason to fear White's power as woman-hater and upholder of law
and order. She simply eliminated Jim and, in order to do this, she must
keep him in the dark.

Early that morning she had looked, as she did every day, from the hill
behind the house and she had seen but one thin curl of smoke from the
clearing! If White had not returned the night before the chances were
that he would make another day of it! Nella-Rose often wondered why
others did not note the tell-tale smoke--a clue which often played a
vital part in the news of the hills. Only because thoughts were focussed
on the Hollow and on White's absence, was Truedale secure in his
privacy.

"I'll hurry mighty fast to the Centre," Nella-Rose concluded, after
escaping from Marg's disturbed gaze, "then I'll hide the things by the
big road and I'll--go to his cabin. I'll--I'll surprise him!"

Truedale had told her the day before, in a moment of caution, that he
would have to work hard for a time in order to make ready for White's
return. The fact was he had now got to that point in his story when he
longed for Jim as he might have longed for safety on a troubled sea.
With Jim back and fully informed--everything on ahead would be safe.

"I'll surprise him!" murmured Nella-Rose, with the dimples in full play
at the corners of her mouth; "old Jim White can't keep me away. I'll
watch out--it's just for a minute; I'll be back by sundown; it will be
only to say 'how-de?'"

Something argued with the girl as she ran on--something quite new and
uncontrolled. Heretofore no law but that of the wilds had entered into
her calculations. To get what she could of happiness and life--to make
as little fuss as possible--that had been her code; but now, the same
restraint that had held Marg from going to the Hollow awhile back, when
she thought that, with night, Burke Lawson might disclose his
whereabouts, held Nella-Rose! So insistent was the rising argument that
it angered the girl. "Why? Why?" her longings and desires cried.
"Because! Because!" was the stern response, and the _woman_ in
Nella-Rose thrilled and throbbed and trembled, while the girlish spirit
pleaded for the excitement of joy and sweetness that was making the
grim stretches of her narrow existence radiant and full of meaning.

On she went doggedly. The dimples disappeared; the mouth fell into the
pathetic, drooping lines that by and by, unless something saved
Nella-Rose, would become permanent and mark her as a hill-woman--one to
whom soul visions were denied.




CHAPTER VI


Wisdom had all but conquered Nella-Rose's folly when she came in sight
of Calvin Merrivale's store. But--who knows?--perhaps the girl's story
had been written long since, and she was not entirely free. Be that as
it may, she paused, for no reason whatever as far as she could tell, and
carefully took one dozen eggs from the basket and hid them under some
bushes by the road! Having done this she went forward so blithely and
lightly that one might have thought her load had been considerably
eased. She appeared before Calvin Merrivale, presently, like a
refreshing apparition from vacancy. It was high noon and Merrivale was
dozing in a chair by the rusty stove, in which a fire, prepared against
the evening chill, was already burning.

"How-de, Mister Merrivale?" Calvin sprang to his feet.

"If it ain't lil' Nella-Rose. How'se you-all?"

"Right smart. I've brought you three dozen eggs and ten pounds of pork."
Nella-Rose almost said po'k--not quite! "And you must be mighty generous
with me when you weigh out--let me see!--oh, yes, pepper, salt, and
sugar."

"I'll lay a siftin' more in the scale, Nella-Rose, on 'count o' yo'
enjoyin' ways. But I can't make this out"--he was counting the
eggs--"yo' said three dozen aigs?"

"Three dozen, and ten pounds of pork!" This very firmly.

Merrivale counted again and as he did so Nella-Rose remembered! The red
came to her face--the tears to her ashamed eyes.

"Stop!" she said softly, going close to the old man. "I forgot. I took
one dozen out!"

Merrivale stood and looked at her and then, what he thought was
understanding, came to his assistance.

"Who fo', Nella-Rose, who fo'?"

There was no reply to this.

"Yo' needn't be afraid to open yo' mind ter me, Nella-Rose. Keeping sto'
is a mighty help in gettin' an all-around knowin' o' things. Folks jest
naterally come here an' talk an' jest naterally I listen, an' 'twixt Jim
White, the sheriff, an' old Merrivale, there ain't much choosin',
jedgmatically speakin'. I know White's off an' plannin' ter round up
Burke Lawson from behind, as it war. T'warnt so in my day, lil'
Nella-Rose. When we-uns had a reckonin comin', we naterally went out an'
shot our man; but these torn-down scoundrels like Jed Martin an' his
kind they trap 'em an' send 'em to worse'n hell. Las' night"--and here
Merrivale bent close to Nella-Rose--"my hen coop was 'tarnally gone
through, an' a bag o' taters lifted. I ain't makin' no cry-out. I ain't
forgot the year o' the fever an'--an'--well, yo' know who--took care o'
me day an' night till I saw faces an' knew 'em! What's a matter o' a hen
o' two an' a sack o' taters when lined up agin that fever spell? I tell
yo', Nella-Rose, if _yo'_ say thar war three dozen aigs, thar _war_
three dozen aigs, an' we'll bargain accordin'!"

And now the dimples came slowly to the relieved face.

"I'll--I'll bring you an extra dozen right soon, Mister Merrivale."

"I ain't a-goin' ter flex my soul 'bout that, Nella-Rose. Aigs is aigs,
but human nater is human nater; an' keepin' a store widens yo' stretch
o' vision. Now, watch out, lil' girl, an' don't take too much fo'
granted. When a gun goes off yo' hear it; but when skunks trail, yo'
don't get no sign, 'less it's a smell!"

Nella-Rose took her packages, smiled her thanks, and ran on. She ate her
lunch by the bushes where the eggs lay hidden, then depositing in the
safe shelter the home bundles Merrivale had so generously weighed, she
put the eggs in the basket, packed with autumn leaves, and turned into
the trail leading away from the big road.

Through the bare trees the clear sky shone like a shield of blue-gray
metal. It was a sky open for storm to come and pass unchecked. The very
stillness and calm were warnings of approaching disturbance. Nature was
listening and waiting for the breaking up of autumn and the clutch of
frost.

It was only two miles from the Centre to White's clearing and the
afternoon was young when Nella-Rose paused at the foot of the last climb
and took breath and courage. There was a tangled mass of rhododendrons
by the edge of the wood and suddenly the girl's eyes became fixed upon
it and her heart beat wildly. Something alive was crouching there,
though none but a trained sense could have detected it! They waited--the
hidden creature and the quivering girl! Then a pair of eager, suspicious
eyes shone between the dead leaves of the bushes; next a dark, thin face
peered forth--it was Burke Lawson's! Nella-Rose clutched her basket
closer--that was all. After a moment she spoke softly, but clearly:

"I'm alone. You're safe. How long have you been back?"

"Mor'n two weeks!"

Nella-Rose started. So they had known all along, and while she had
played with Marg the hunt might at any moment have become deadly
earnest.

"More'n two weeks," Lawson repeated.

"Where?" The girl's voice was hard and cold.

"In the Holler. Miss Lois Ann helped--but Lord! you can't eat a helpless
old woman out of house and home. Last night--"

"Yes, yes; I know. And oh, Burke, Mister Merrivale hasn't forgot--the
fever and your goodness. He won't give you up."

"He won't need to. I'm right safe, 'cept for food. There's an old hole,
back of a deserted still--I can even have a bit of fire. The devil
himself couldn't find me. After a time I'm going--"

"Where? Where, Burke?"

"Nella-Rose, would you come with me? 'Twas you as brought me back--I had
to come. If you will--oh! my doney-gal--"

"Stop! stop, Burke. Some one might be near. No, no; I couldn't leave the
hills--I'd die from the longing, you know that!"

"If I--dared them all--could you take me, Nella-Rose? I'd run my chances
with you! Night and day you tug and pull at the heart o' me,
Nella-Rose."

Fear, and a deeper understanding, drove Nella-Rose to the wrong course.

"When you dare to come out--when they-all let you stay out--then ask me
again, Burke Lawson. I'm not going to sweetheart with one who dare not
show his head."

Her one desire was to get Lawson away; she must be free!

"Nella-Rose, I'll come out o' this."

"No! no!" the girl gasped, "they're not after you to shoot you, Burke;
Jed Martin is for putting you in jail!"

"Good God--the sneaking coward."

"And Jim White is off raising a posse, he means to--to see fair play.
Wait until Jim comes back; then give yourself up."

"And then--then, Nella-Rose?"

The young, keen face among the dead leaves glowed with a light that sent
the blood from Nella-Rose's heart.

"See"--she said inconsequently--"I have" (she counted them out), "I have
a dozen eggs; give them to Miss Lois Ann!"

"Let me touch you, Nella-Rose! Just let me touch your lil' hand."

"Wait until Jim White comes back!"

Then, because a rabbit scurried from its shelter, Burke Lawson sank into
his, and Nella-Rose in mad haste took to the trail and was gone! A
moment later Lawson peered out again and tried to decide which way she
went, but his wits were confused--so he laughed that easy, fearless
laugh of his and put in his hat the eggs Nella-Rose had left. Then,
crawling and edging along, he retraced his steps to that hole in the
Hollow where he knew he was as safe as if he were in his grave.

With distance and reassurance on her side, Nella-Rose paused to take
breath. She had been thoroughly frightened. Her beautiful plans,
unsuspected by all the world, had been threatened by an unlooked-for
danger. She had never contemplated Burke Lawson as a complication. She
was living day by day, hour by hour. Jim White she had accepted as a
menace--but Burke never! She was no longer the girl Lawson had known,
but how could she hope to make him understand that? Her tender,
love-seeking nature had, in the past, accepted the best the mountains
offered--and Burke had been the best. She had played with him--teased
Marg with him--revelled in the excitement, but _now_? Well, the
blindness had been torn from her eyes--the shackles from her feet. No
one, nothing, could hold her from her own! She must not be defrauded and
imprisoned again!

Yes, that was it--imprisoned just when she had learned to use her wings!

Standing in the tangle of undergrowth, Nella-Rose clenched her small
hands and raised wide eyes to the skies.

"I seem," she panted--and at that moment all her untamed mysticism
swayed her--"like I was going along the tracks in the dark and something
is coming--something like that train long ago!"

Then she closed her eyes and her uplifted face softened and quivered.
Behind the drooping lids she saw--Truedale! Quite vividly he
materialized to her excited fancy. It was the first time she had ever
been able to command him in this fashion.

"I'm going to him!" The words were like a passionate prayer rather than
an affirmation. "I'm going to follow like I followed long ago!" She
clutched the basket and fled along.

And while this was happening, Truedale, in his cabin, was working as he
had not worked in years. He had burned all his bridges and outlying
outposts; he was waiting for White, and his plans were completed. He
meant to confide everything to his only friend--for such Jim seemed in
the hazy and desolated present--then he would marry Nella-Rose off-hand;
there must be a minister somewhere! After that? Well, after that
Truedale grasped his manuscript and fell to work like one inspired.

Lynda Kendall would never have known the play in its present form.
Truedale's ideal had always been to portray a free woman--a super-woman;
one who had evolved into the freedom from shattered chains. He now had a
heroine free, in that she had never been enslaved. If one greater than
he had put a soul in a statue, Truedale believed that he could awaken a
child of nature and show her her own beautiful soul. He had outlined, a
time back, a sylvan Galatea; and now, as he sat in the still room, the
framework assumed form and substance; it breathed and moved him
divinely. It and he were alone in the universe; they were to begin the
world--he and--

Just then the advance messenger of the coming change of weather entered
by way of a lowered window. It was a smart little breeze and it
flippantly sent the ashes flying on the hearth and several sheets of
paper broadcast in the room. Truedale sprang to recover his treasures;
he caught four or five, but one escaped his notice and floated toward
the door, which was ajar.

"Whew!" he ejaculated, "that was a narrow escape," and he began to sort
and arrange the sheets on the table.

"Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two. Now where in thunder is that sixty-three?"

A light touch on his arm made him spring to his feet, every nerve
a-tingle.

"Here it is! It seemed like it came to meet me."

"Nella-Rose!"

The girl nodded, holding out the paper.

"So you have come? Why--did you?"

The dimples came into play and Truedale stood watching them while many
emotions flayed him; but gradually his weakness passed and he was able
to assume an extremely stern though kindly manner. He meant to set the
child right; he meant to see _only_ the _child_ in her until White
returned; he would ignore the perilously sweet woman-appeal to his
senses until such time as he could, with safety, let them once more hold
part in their relations with each other.

But even as he arrived at this wise conclusion, he was noting, as often
before he had noted, the fascinating colour and quality of Nella-Rose's
hair. It was both dark and light. If smoke were filled with sunlight it
would be something like the mass of more or less loosened tendrils that
crowned the girl's pretty head. Stern resolve began to melt before the
girlish sweetness and audacity, but Truedale made one last struggle; he
thought of staunch and true Brace Kendall! And, be it to Brace Kendall's
credit, the course Conning endeavoured to take was a wise one.

"See here, Nella-Rose, you ought not to come here--alone!"

"Why? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course. But why did you come?" This was risky. Truedale recognized
it at once.

"Just to say--'how-de'! You certainly do look scroogy."

At this Truedale laughed. Nella-Rose's capacity for bringing forth his
happier, merrier nature was one of her endearing charms.

"You didn't come just for that, Nella-Rose!" This with stern
disapproval.

"Take off the scroogy face--then I'll tell you why I came."

"Very well!" Truedale smiled weakly. "Why?"

"I'm right hungry. I--I want a party."

Of course this would never do. White, or one of the blood-and-thunder
raiders, might appear.

"You must go, Nella-Rose."

"Not"--here she sat down firmly and undid her ridiculous plaid
shawl--"not till you give me a bite. Just a mighty little bite--I'm
starving!"

At this Truedale roared with laughter and went hurriedly to his closet.
The girl must eat and--_go_. Mechanically he set about placing food upon
the table. Then he sat opposite Nella-Rose while she ate with frank
enjoyment the remains of his own noon-day meal. He could not but note,
as he often did, the daintiness with which she accomplished the task.
Other women, as Truedale remembered, were not prepossessing when
attacking food; but this girl made a gracious little ceremony of the
affair. She placed the small dishes in orderly array before her; she
poised herself lightly on the edge of the chair and nibbled--there was
no other word for it--as a perky little chipmunk might, the morsels she
raised gracefully to her mouth. She was genuinely hungry and for a few
minutes devoted her attention to the matter in hand.

Then, suddenly, Nella-Rose did something that shattered the last scrap
of self-control that was associated with the trusty Kendall and his good
example. She raised a bit of food on her fork and held it out to
Truedale, her lovely eyes looking wistfully into his.

"Please! I feel so ornery eating alone. I want to--share! Please play
party with me!"

Truedale tried to say "I had my dinner an hour ago"; instead, he leaned
across his folded arms and murmured, as if quite outside his own
volition:

"I--I love you!"

Nella-Rose dropped the fork and leaned back. Her lids fell over the wide
eyes--the smile faded from her lips.

"Do you belong to any one--else, Nella-Rose?"

"No--oh! no." This like a frightened cry.

"But others--some one must have told you--of love. Do you know what love
means?"

"Yes."

"How?"

And now she looked at him. Her eyes were dark, her face deadly pale; her
lips were so red that in the whiteness they seemed the only trace of
colour.

"How do I know? Why because--nothing else matters. It seems like I've
been coming all my life to it--and now it just says: 'Here I am,
Nella-Rose--here'!"

"I, too, have been coming to it all my life, little girl. I did not
know--I was driven. I rebelled, because I did not know; but nothing else
_does_ matter, when--love gets you!"

"No. Nothing matters." The girl's voice was rapt and dreamy. Truedale
put his hands across the space dividing them and took hold of hers.

"You will be--mine, Nella-Rose?"

"Seems like I must be!"

"Yes. Doesn't it? Do you--you must understand, dear? I mean to live the
rest of my life here in the hills--your hills. You once said one was of
the hills or one wasn't; will they let me stay?"

"Yes"--almost fiercely--"but--but your folks--off there--will they let
you stay?"

"I have no folks, Nella-Rose. I'm lonely and poor--at least I was until
I found you! The hills have given me--everything; I mean to serve them
well in return. I want you for my wife, Nella-Rose; we'll make a
home--somewhere--it doesn't matter; it will be a shelter for our love
and--" He stopped short. Reality and conventions made a last vain
appeal. "I don't want you ever again to go out of my sight. You're mine
and nothing could make that different--but" (and this came quickly,
desperately) "there must be a minister somewhere--let's go to him! Do
not let us waste another precious day. When he makes you mine by
his"--Truedale was going to say "ridiculous jargon" but he modified it
to--"his authority, no one in all God's world can take you from me.
Come, come _now_, sweetheart!"

In another moment he would have had her in his arms, but she held him
off.

"I'm mighty afraid of old Jim White!" she said.

Truedale laughed, but the words brought him to his senses.

"Then you must go, darling, until White returns. After I have explained
to him I will come for you, but first let me hold you--so! and kiss
you--so! This is why--you must go, my love!"

She was in his arms, her lifted face pressed to his. She shivered, but
clung to him for a moment and two tears rolled down her cheeks--the
first he had ever seen escape her control. He kissed them away.

"Of what are you thinking, Nella-Rose?"

"Thinking? I'm not thinking; I'm--happy!"

"My--sweetheart!" Again Truedale pressed his lips to hers.

"Us-all calls sweetheart--'doney-gal'!"

"My--my doney-gal, then!"

"And"--the words came muffled, for Truedale was holding her still--"and
always I shall see your face, now. It came to-day like it came long ago.
It will always come and make me glad."

Truedale lifted her from his breast and held her at arms' length. He
looked deep into her eyes, trying to pierce through her ignorance and
childishness to find the elusive woman that could meet and bear its part
in what lay before. Long they gazed at each other--then the light in
Nella-Rose's face quivered--her mouth drooped.

"I'm going now," she said, "going till Jim White comes back."

"Wait--my--"

But the girl had slipped from his grasp; she was gone into the misty,
threatening grayness that had closed in about them while love had
carried them beyond their depths. Then the rain began to fall--heavy,
warning drops. The wind, too, was rising sullenly like a monster roused
from its sleep and slowly gathering power to vent its rage.

Into this darkening storm Nella-Rose fled unheedingly. She was not
herself--not the girl of the woods, wise in mountain lore; she was
bewitched and half mad with the bewildering emotions that, at one moment
frightened her--the next, carried her closer to the spiritual than she
had ever been.




CHAPTER VII


Alone in his cabin, Truedale was conscious of a sort of groundless
terror that angered him. The storm could not account for it--he had the
advantage of ignorance there! Certainly his last half-hour could not be
responsible for his sensations. He justified every minute of it by terms
as old as man's desires and his resentment of restrictions. "Our lives
are our own!" he muttered, setting to work to build a fire and to light
the lamp. "They will all come around to my way of seeing things when I
have made good and taken her back to them!"

Still this arguing brought no peace, and more and more Truedale found
himself relying upon Jim White's opinions. In that troubled hour the
sheriff stood like a rugged sign post in the path. One unflinching
finger pointed to the past; the other--to the future.

"Well! I've chosen," thought Truedale; "it's the new way and--thank
God!" But he felt that the future could be made possible or miserable by
Jim's favour or disapproval.

Having decided to follow upon White's counsel, Truedale mentally prayed
for his return, and at once. The fact was, Truedale was drugged and he
had just sense enough left to know it! He vaguely realized that the
half-hour with Nella-Rose had been a dangerous epoch in his life. He was
safe, thank heaven! but he dared not trust himself just now without a
stronger will to guide him!

While he busied himself at feeding the animals, preparing and clearing
away his own evening meal, he grew calmer. The storm was gaining in
fury--and he was thankful for it! He was shut away from possible
temptation; he even found it easy to think of Kendall and of Lynda, but
he utterly eliminated his uncle from his mind. Between him and old
William Truedale the gulf seemed to have become impassable!

And while Truedale sank into an unsafe mental calm, Nella-Rose pushed
her way into the teeth of the storm and laughed and chattered like a mad
and lost little nymph. Wind and rain always exhilarated her and the fury
of the elements, gaining force every minute, did not alarm her while the
memory of her great experience held sway over her. She shook her hair
back from her wide, vague eyes. She was undecided where to go for the
night--it did not matter greatly; to-morrow she would go again to
Truedale, or he would come to her. At last she settled upon seeking the
shelter of old Lois Ann, in Devil-may-come Hollow, and turned in that
direction.

It was eight o'clock then and Truedale, with his books and papers on
the table before him, declared: "I am quite all right now," and fell to
work upon the manuscript that earlier had engrossed him.

As the time sped by he was able to visualize the play; _he_ was sitting
in the audience--he beheld the changing scenes and the tense climax. He
even began to speculate upon the particular star that would be fitted
for the leading part. His one extravagance, in the past, had been
cut-rate seats in the best theatres.

Suddenly the mood passed and all at once Truedale realized that he was
tired--deadly tired. The perspiration stood on his forehead--he ached
from the strain of cramped muscles. Then he looked at his watch; it was
eleven o'clock! The stillness out of doors bespoke a sullen break in the
storm. A determined drip-drip from roof and trees was like the ticking
of a huge clock running down, but good for some time. The fire had died
out, not a bit of red showed in the ashes, but the room was hot, still.
Truedale decided to go to bed without it, and, having come to that
conclusion, he bent his head upon his folded arms and sank into a deep
sleep.

Suddenly he awoke. The room was cold and dark! The lamp had burned
itself out and the storm was again howling in its second attack. Chilled
and obsessed by an unnerving sense of danger, Truedale waited for--he
knew not what! Just then something pressed against his leg and he put
his hand down thinking one of the dogs was crouching close, but a
whispered "sh!" set every muscle tense.

"Nella-Rose?"

"Yes--but, oh! be mighty still. They may be here any minute."

"They? Who?"

"All of them. Jed Martin, my father, and the others--the ones who are
friends of--of--"

"Whom, Nella-Rose?"

"Burke Lawson! He's back--and they think--oh! they think they are on his
trail--here! I--I was trying to get away but the streams were swollen
and the big trees were bending and--and I hid behind a rock and--I
heard!

"First it was Jed and father; they said they were going to shoot--they'd
given up catching Burke alive! Then they went up-stream and the--the
others came--the friends, and they 'lowed that Burke was here and they
meant to get here before Jed and--and da some killing on their side.
I--I thought it was fun when they-all meant to take Burke alive, but
now--oh! now can't you see?--they'll shoot and find out afterward! They
may come any minute! I put the light out. Come, we must leave the cabin
empty-looking--like you had gone--and hide!"

The breathless whispering stopped and Truedale collected his senses in
the face of this real danger.

"But you--you must not be here, Nella-Rose!"

Every nerve was alert now. "This is pure madness. Great heavens! what
am I going to do with you?"

The seriousness of the situation overpowered him.

"Sh!" The warning was caused by the restlessness of the dogs outside.
Their quick ears were sensing danger or--the coming of their master!
Either possibility was equally alarming.

"Oh! you do not understand," Nella-Rose was pleading by his knee. "If
they-all see you, they will have you killed that minute. Burke is the
only one in their minds--they don't even know that you live; they're too
full of Burke, and if they see me--why--they'd kill you anyway."

"But what can I do with you?" That thought alone swayed Truedale.

Then Nella-Rose got upon her feet and stood close to him.

"I'm yours! I gave myself to you. You--you wanted me. Are you sorry?"

The simple pride and dignity went straight to Truedale's heart.

"It's because I want you so, little girl, that I must save you."

Somehow Nella-Rose seemed to have lost her fear of the oncoming raiders;
she spoke deliberately, and above a whisper:

"Save me?--from what?"

There were no words to convey to her his meaning. Truedale felt almost
ashamed to hold it in his own mind. They so inevitably belonged to each
other; why should they question?

"I--I shall not go away--again!"

"My darling, you must."

"Where?"

The word brought him to his senses--where, indeed? With the dark woods
full of armed men ready to fire at any moving thing in human shape, he
could not let her go! That conclusion reached, and all anchors cut, the
danger and need of the hour claimed him.

"Yes; you are mine!" he whispered, gathering her to him. "What does
anything matter but our safety to-night? To-morrow; well, to-morrow--"

"Sh!"

No ear but one trained to the secrets of the still places could have
detected a sound.

"They are coming! Yes, not the many--it is Jed! Come! While you slept I
carried a right many things to the rhododendron slick back of the house!
See, push over the chair--leave the door open like you'd gone away
before the storm."

Quickly and silently Nella-Rose suited action to word. Truedale watched
her like one bewitched. "Now!" She took him by the hand and the next
minute they were out on the wet, sodden leaves; the next they were
crouching close under the bushes where even the heavy rain had not
penetrated. Half-consciously Truedale recognized some of his property
near by--his clothing, two or three books, and--yes--it was his
manuscript! The white roll was safe! How she must have worked while he
slept.

Once only did she speak until danger was past. Nestling close in his
arms, her head upon his shoulder, she breathed:

"If they-all shoot, we'll die together!"

The unreality of the thing gradually wore upon Truedale's tense nerves.
If anything was going to happen he wanted it to happen! In another
half-hour he meant to put an end to the farce and move his belongings
back to the cabin and take Nella-Rose home. It was a nightmare--nothing
less!

"Sh!" and then the waiting was over. Two dark figures, guns ready, stole
from the woods behind White's cabin. Where were the dogs? Why did they
not speak out?--but the dogs were trained to be as silent as the men.
They were all part and parcel of the secret lawlessness of the hills. In
the dim light Truedale watched the shadowy forms enter Jim's unlocked
cabin and presently issue forth, evidently convinced that the prey was
not there--had not been there! Then as stealthy as Indians they made
their way to the other cabin--Truedale's late shelter. They kept to the
bushes and the edge of the woods--they were like creeping animals until
they reached the shack; then, standing erect and close, they went in the
doorway. So near was the hiding place of Truedale and his companion
that they could hear the oaths of the hunters as they became aware that
their quarry had escaped.

"He's been here, all right!" It was Jed Martin who spoke.

"I reckon he's caught on," Peter Greyson drawled, "he's makin' for Jim
White. White ain't more'n fifteen miles back; we can cut him off, Jed,
'fore he reaches safety--the skunk!"

Then the two emerged from the cabin and strode boldly away.

"The others!" whispered Truedale--"will they come?"

"Wait!"

There was a stir--a trampling--but apparently the newcomers did not see
Martin and Greyson. There was a crackling of underbrush by feet no
longer feeling need of caution, then another space of silence before
safety was made sure for the two in the bushes.

At last Truedale dared to speak.

"Nella-Rose!" He looked down at the face upon his breast. She was
asleep--deeply, exhaustedly asleep!

Truedale shifted his position. He was cramped and aching; still the even
breathing did not break. He laid her down gently and put a heavy coat
about her--one that earlier she had carried from the cabin in her effort
to save him. He went to the house and grimly set to work. First he
lighted a fire; then he righted the chairs and brought about some order
from the chaos. He was no longer afraid of any man on God's earth; even
Jim White was relegated to the non-essentials. Truedale was merely a
primitive creature caring for his own! There was no turning back now--no
waiting upon conventions. When he had made ready he was going out to
bring his own to her home!

The sullen, soggy night, with its bursts of fury and periods of calm,
had settled down, apparently, to a drenching, businesslike rain. The
natives knew how to estimate such weather. By daylight the streams would
be raging rivers on whose currents trees and animals would be carried
ruthlessly to the lowlands. Roads would be obliterated and human beings
would seek shelter wherever they could find it.

But Truedale was spared the worry this knowledge might have brought him.
He concentrated now upon the present and grimly accepted conditions as
they were. All power or inclination for struggle was past; the
inheritance of weakness which old William Truedale had feared and with
which Conning himself had so contended in his barren youth, asserted
itself and prepared to take unquestioningly what the present offered.

At that moment Truedale believed himself arbiter of his own fate and
Nella-Rose's. Conditions had forced him to this position and he was
ready to assume responsibility. There was no alternative; he must
accept things as they were and make them secure later on. For himself
the details of convention did not matter. He had always despised them.
In his youthful spiritual anarchy he had flouted them openly; they made
no claim upon his attention now, except where Nella-Rose was concerned.
Appearances were against him and her, but none but fools would allow
that to daunt them. He, Truedale, felt that no law of man was needed to
hold him to the course he had chosen, back on the day when he determined
to forsake the past and fling his fortunes in with the new. Never in his
life was Conning Truedale more sincere or, he believed, more wise, than
he was at that moment. And just then Nella-Rose appeared coming down the
rain-drenched path like a little ghost in the grim, gray dawn. She still
wore the heavy coat he had put about her, and her eyes were dreamy and
vague.

Truedale strode toward her and took her in his arms.

"My darling," he whispered, "are you able to come with me now--at
once--to the minister? It must be now, sweetheart--now!"

She looked at him like a child trying to understand his mood.

"Oh!" she said presently, "I 'most forgot. The minister has gone to a
burying back in the hills; he'll be gone a right long time. Bill Trim,
who carries all the news, told me to-day."

"Where is he, Nella-Rose?" Something seemed tightening around
Truedale's heart.

"Us-all don't know; he left it written on his door."

"Where is there another minister, Nella-Rose?"

"There is no other."

"This is absurd--of course there is another. We must start at once and
find him."

"Listen!" The face upon Truedale's breast was lifted. "You hear that?"

"Yes. What is it?" Truedale was alarmed.

"It means that the little streams are rivers; it means that the trails
are full of rocks and trees; it means"--the words sank to an awed
whisper--"it means that we must _fight_ for what we-all want to keep."

"Good God! Nella-Rose, but where can I take you?"

"There is no place--but here."

It seemed an hour that the silence lasted while Truedale faced this new
phase and came to his desperate conclusion.

Had any one suggested to him then that his decision was the decision of
weakness, or immemorial evil, he would have resented the thought with
bitterest scorn. Unknowingly he was being tempted by the devil in him,
and he fell; he had only himself to look to for salvation from his
mistaken impulses, and his best self, unprepared, was drugged by the
overpowering appeal that Nella-Rose made to his senses.

Standing with the girl in his arms; listening to the oncoming danger
which, he realized at last, might destroy him and her at any moment;
bereft of every one--everything that could have held them to the old
ideals; Truedale saw but one course--and took it.

"There is no place but here--no one but you and me!"

The soft tones penetrated to the troubled place where Truedale seemed to
stand alone making his last, losing fight.

"Then, by heaven!" he said, "let us accept it--you and I!"

He had crossed his Rubicon.

They ate, almost solemnly; they listened to that awful roar growing more
and more distinct and menacing. Nella-Rose was still and watchful, but
Truedale had never been more cruelly alive than he was then when, with
his wider knowledge, he realized the step he had taken. Whether it were
for life or death, he had blotted out effectually all that had gone to
the making of the man he once was. Whatever hope he might have had of
making Lynda Kendall and Brace understand, had things gone as he once
had planned, there was no hope now. No--he and Nella-Rose were alone and
helpless in the danger-haunted hills. He and she!

The sun made an effort to come forth later but the rush and roar of the
oncoming torrent seemed to daunt it. For an hour it struggled, then gave
up. But during that hour Truedale led Nella-Rose from the house.
Silently they made their way to a little hilltop from which they could
see an open space of dull, leaden sky. There Truedale took the girl's
hands in his and lifted his eyes while his benumbed soul sought whatever
God there might be.

"In Thy sight," he said slowly, deeply, "I take this woman for my wife.
Bless us; keep us; and"--after a pause--"deal Thou with me as I deal
with her."

Then the earnest eyes dropped to the frightened ones searching his face.

"You are mine!" Truedale spoke commandingly, with a force that never
before had marked him.

"Yes." The word was a faint, frightened whisper.

"My darling, kiss me!"

She kissed him with trembling lips.

"You love me?"

"I--I love you."

"You--you trust me?"

"I--oh! yes; yes."

"Then come, my doney-gal! For life or death, it is you and I, little
woman, from now on!"

Like a flash his gloom departed. He was gay, desperate, and free of all
hampering doubts. In such a mood Nella-Rose lost all fear of him and
walked by his side as complacently as if the one minister in her sordid
little world had with all his strange authority said his sacred "Amen"
over her.




CHAPTER VIII


There were five days of terrific storm. Truedale and Nella-Rose had
fought to save White's live stock--even his cabin itself; for the deluge
had attacked that while leaving safe the smaller cabin near by. All one
morning they had worked gathering debris and placing it so that it
turned the course of a rapid stream that threatened the larger house. It
had been almost a lost hope, but as the day wore on the torrent
lessened, the rough barrier held--they were successful! The gate and
snake-fence were carried away, but the rest was saved!

In the strenuous labour, in the dangerous isolation, the ordinary things
of life lost their importance. With death facing them their love and
companionship were all that were left to them and neither counted the
cost. But on the sixth day the sun shone, the flood was past, and with
safety and the sure coming of Jim White at hand, they sat confronting
each other in a silence new and potent.

"Sweetheart, you must go--for a few hours!"

Truedale bent across the table that separated them and took her clasped
hands in his. He had burned all his social bridges, but poor
Nella-Rose's progress through life had not been made over anything so
substantial as bridges. She had proceeded by scrambling down and up
primitive obstacles; she felt that at last she had come to her Land of
Promise.

"You are going to send me--away? Where?"

"Only until White returns, little girl. See here, dear, you and I are
quite gloriously mad, but others are stupidly sane and we've got to
think of them."

Truedale was talking over her head, but already Nella-Rose accepted this
as a phase of their new relations. A mountain man might still love his
woman even if he beat her and, while Nella-Rose would have scorned the
suggestion that she was a mountain woman, she did seriously believe that
men were different from women and that was the end of the matter!

"You run along, small girl of mine--the skies are clear, the sun
warm--but I want you to meet me at three o'clock at the spot where the
trail joins the road. I will be there and I will wait for you."

"But why?--why?" The blue-gray eyes were troubled.

"Sweetheart, we're going to find that minister of yours if we have to
travel from one end of the hills to the other!"

"But we-all are married!" This with a little gasp. "Back on the hill,
when you told God and said He understood; then we-all were married."

"And so we were, my sweet, no minister could make you more mine than
you already are, but the others--your people. Should they try to
separate us they might cause trouble and the minister can make it
impossible for any one to take you away from my love and care."

And at that moment Truedale actually believed what he said. In his heart
he had always been a rebel--defiant and impotent. He had, in this
instance, proved his theories; but he did not intend to leave loose ends
that might endanger the safety of others--of this young girl, most of
all. He was only going to carry out his original plans for her
safety--not his own. After the days just past--days of anxiety, relief,
and the proving of his love and hers--no doubt remained in Truedale's
heart; he was of the hills, now and forever!

"No one can--_now_!" This came passionately from Nella-Rose as she
watched him.

"They might make trouble until they found that out. They're too free
with their guns. There's a lot to explain, little doney-gal." Conning
smiled down her doubts.

"Until three o'clock!" Nella-Rose pouted, "that's a right long time. But
I'll--just run along. Always and always I'm going to do what you say!"
Already his power over her was absolute. She put her arms out with a
happy, wilful gesture and Truedale held her closer.

"Only until three, sweetheart."

Nella-Rose drew herself away and turned to pick up her little shawl and
hat from the couch by the fire; she was just reaching for her basket,
when a shadow fell across the floor. Truedale and the girl turned and
confronted--Jim White! What he had seen and heard--who could tell from
his expressionless face and steady voice? The door had been on the latch
and he had come in!

"Mail, and truck, and rabbits!" he explained, tossing his load upon the
table. Then he turned toward Truedale as if noticing him for the first
time.

"How-de?" he said. Finally his gaze shifted to Nella-Rose and seemed to
burn into her soul.

"Goin', p'r'aps, or--comin'?" he questioned.

"I--I am--going!" Fright and dismay marked the girl's voice. Truedale
went toward her. The covert brutality in White's words shocked and
angered him. He gave no thought to the cause, but he resented the
insult.

"Wait!" he commanded, for Nella-Rose was gone through the open door.
"Wait!"

Seeing that she had for the moment escaped him, Truedale turned to White
and confronted him with clear, angry eyes.

"What have you got to say for yourself?" he demanded fiercely.

The shock had been tremendous for Jim. Three weeks previously he had
left his charge safe and alone; he had come back and found--But shock
always stiffened Jim White; that was one reason for his success in life.
He was never so inflexible and deadly self-possessed as he was when he
could not see the next step ahead.

"Gawd, but I'm tired!" he said, when he had stared at Truedale as long
as he cared to, "I'm going over to my place to turn in. Seems like I'll
sleep for a month once I get started."

"You don't go, White, until you explain what you meant by--"

But Truedale mistook his man. Jim, having drawn his own conclusion,
laughed and strode toward the door.

"I go when I'm damned pleased ter go!" he flung out derisively, "and I
come the same way, young feller. There's mail for yo' in the sack and--a
telegram." White paused by the door a moment while Truedale picked the
yellow envelope from the bag and tore it open.

     "Your uncle died suddenly on the 16th. Come at once. Vitally
     important. McPHERSON."

For a moment both men forgot the thing that had driven them wide apart.

"Bad news?" asked the sheriff.

Something was happening to Truedale--he felt as if the effect of some
narcotic were losing its power; the fevered unreality was giving place
to sensation but the brain was recording it dully.

"What date is this?" he asked, dazed.

"Twenty-fifth," Jim replied as he moved out of the door.

"When can I get a train from the station?"

"There's one as leaves anywhere 'twixt nine and ten ter-night."

"That gives me time to pack. See here, White, while it isn't any of your
business, I want to explain a thing or two--before I go. I'll be back as
soon as I can--in a week or ten days at furthest. When I return I intend
to stay on, probably for the rest of my life."

White still held Truedale by the cold, steely gleam of his eyes which
was driving lucidity home to the dulled brain. By a power as unyielding
as death Jim was destroying the screen Truedale had managed to raise
against the homely codes of life and was leaving his guest naked and
exposed.

The shock of the telegram--the pause it evolved--had given Truedale time
to catch the meaning of White's attitude; now that he realized it, he
knew he must lay certain facts open--he could not wait until his return.

Presently Jim spoke from outside the door.

"I ain't settin' up for no critic. I ain't by nater a weigher or trimmer
and I don't care a durn for what ain't my business. When I _see_ my
business I settle it in my own way!"--there was almost a warning in
this. "I'm dead tired, root and branch. I'm goin' ter take a bite an'
turn in. I may sleep a couple o' days; put off yo' 'splainifyin' 'til
yo' come back ter end yo' days. Take the mare an' leave her by the
trail; she'll come home. Tell old Doc McPherson I was askin' arter him."

By that time Jim had ceased scorching his way to Truedale's soul and was
on the path to his own cabin.

"Looks like yo' had a tussle with the storm," he remarked. "Any livin'
thing killed?"

"No."

"Thank yo'!" Then, as if determined not to share any further confidence,
White strode on.

For a moment Truedale stood and stared after his host in impotent rage.
Was Jim White such a lily of purity that he presumed to take that
attitude? Was the code of the hills that of the Romany gypsies? How dare
any man judge and sentence another without trial?

The effect of the narcotic still worked sluggishly, now that White's
irritating presence was removed. Truedale shrugged his shoulders and
turned to his packing. He was feverishly eager to get to Nella-Rose.
Before nightfall she would be his before the world; in two weeks he
would be back; the future would shame White and bring him to his senses.
Jim had a soft heart; he was just, in his brutal fashion. When he
understood how matters were, he would feel like the fool he was--a fool
willing to cast a man off, unheard! But Truedale blamed himself for the
hesitation that meant so much. The telegram--his fear of making a wrong
step--had caused the grave mistake that could not be righted now.

At two o'clock Truedale started--on Jim's mare! White's cabin had all
the appearance of being barred against intrusion. Truedale did not mean
to test this, but it hurt him like a blow. However, there was nothing to
do but remedy, as soon as possible, the error he had permitted to arise.
No man on earth could make Nella-Rose more his than his love and good
faith had made her, still he was eager now to resort to all the
time-honoured safeguards before he left. Once married he would go with a
heart almost light. He would confide everything to Kendall and Lynda--at
least he would his marriage--and urge them to return with him to the
hills, and after that White and all the others would have an awakening.
The possibility thus conceived was like a flood of light and sweet air
in a place dark and bewildering but not evil--no, not that!

As he turned from the clearing Truedale looked back at his cabin.
Nella-Rose seemed still there. She would always be part of it just as
she was now part of his life. He would try and buy the cabin--it would
be sacrilege for others to enter!

So he hurried the mare on, hoping to be at the crossing before
Nella-Rose.

The crisp autumn air was redolent of pines and the significance of
summer long past. It had a physical and spiritual power.

Then turning suddenly from the trail, Truedale saw Nella-Rose sitting on
a rock--waiting! She had on a rough, mannish-looking coat, and a coarse,
red hood covered her bright head. Nella-Rose was garbed in winter
attire. She had worn this outfit for five years and it looked it.

Never again was Truedale to see a face of such radiant joy and trust as
the girl turned upon him. Her eyes were wide and filled with a light
that startled him. He jumped from the horse and took her in his arms.

"What is it?" he asked, fearing some intangible danger.

"The minister was killed by the flood!" Nella-Rose's tones were
thrilling. "He was going through Devil-may-come Hollow and a mighty big
rock struck him and--he's dead!"

"Then you must come with me, Nella-Rose." Truedale set his lips grimly;
there was no time to lose. Between three and nine o'clock surely they
could locate a minister or a justice of the peace. "Come!"

"But why, Mister Man?" She laughed up at him. "Where?"

"It doesn't matter. To New York if necessary. Jump up!" He turned to the
horse, holding the girl close.

"Me go away--in this? Me shame you before--them-all?"

Nella-Rose stood her ground and throwing the rough coat back displayed
her shabby, shrunken dress.

"I went home--they-all were away. I got my warm things, but I have a
white dress and a pink ribbon--I'll get them to-morrow. Then--But why
must we go--away?"

For the first time this thought caught her--she had been whirled along
too rapidly before to note it.

"I have had word that my uncle is dead. I must go at once, my dear, and
you--you must come with me. Would you let a little thing like a--a dress
weigh against our love, and honour?"

Above the native's horror of being dragged from her moorings was that
subtle understanding of honour that had come to Nella-Rose by devious
ways from a source that held it sacred.

"Honour?" she repeated softly; "honour? If I thought I had to go in rags
to make you sure; if I thought I needed to--I'd--"

Truedale saw his mistake. Realizing that if in the little time yet his
he made her comprehend, he might lose more than he could hope to gain,
he let her free while he took a card and pen from his pocket. He wrote
clearly and exactly his address, giving his uncle's home as his.

"Nella-Rose," he said calmly, "I shall be back in two or three weeks at
the latest, but if at any moment you want me, send word here--telegraph
from the station--_you_ come first, always! You are wiser than I, my
sweet; our honour and love are our own. Wait for me, my doney-gal
and--trust me."

She was all joy again--all sweetness. He kissed her, turned, then came
back.

"Where will you go, my darling?" he asked.

"Since they-all do not know"--she was lying against his breast, her eyes
heavy now with grief at the parting--"I reckon I will go home--to wait."

Solemnly Truedale kissed her and turned dejectedly away. Once again he
paused and looked back. She stood against the tree, small and shabby,
but the late afternoon sun transfigured her. In the gloomy setting of
the woods, that fair, little face shone like a gleaming star and so
Truedale remembered her and took her image with him on his lonely way.

Nella-Rose watched him out of sight and then she turned and did
something that well might make one wonder if a wise God or a cruel demon
controls our fates--she ran away from the home path and took the trail
leading far back to the cabin of old Lois Ann!

There was safety; there were compassion and comprehension. The old woman
could tell marvellous tales and so could beguile the waiting days.
Nella-Rose meant to confide in her and ask her to hide her until
Truedale came for her. It was a sudden inspiration and it brought
relief.

And that night--it was past midnight and cold as the north land--Burke
Lawson came face to face with Jed Martin! Lawson was issuing from his
cranny behind the old still and Martin was nosing about alone. He, like
a hungry thing of the wilds, had found his foe's trail and meant to bag
him unaided and have full vengeance and glory. But so unexpectedly, and
alarmingly unconcerned, did Burke materialize in the emptiness that
Jed's gun was a minute too late in getting into position. Lawson had the
drop on him! They were both very quiet for a moment, then Lawson laughed
and did it so boldly that Jed shrank back.

"Coming to make a friendly call, Martin?"

"Something like that!"

"Well, come in, come right in!"

"I reckon you an' me can settle what we've got ter settle in the open!"
Jed stuttered. It seemed a hideous, one-sided settlement.

"As yo' please, Jed, as yo' please. I have a leanin' to the open myself.
I'd just decided ter come out; I was going up ter Jim White's and help
him mete out justice, but maybe you and me can save him the trouble."

"You--goin' ter shoot me, Burke--like a--like a--hedgehog?"

"No. I'm goin' ter do unto yo' as yo' would have--" Here Burke
laughed--he was enjoying himself hugely.

"What yo' mean?"

"Well, I'm goin' ter put yer in my quarters and tie yer to a chair.
Yo'll be able to wiggle out in time, but it will take yer long enough
fur me to do what I'm set about doin'. Yo' torn down traitor!--yo' were
'lowing to put me behind bars, wasn't yer? Yo' meant to let outsiders
take the life out o' me--yo' skunk! Well, instead, Jed--I'm goin' on my
weddin' trip--me and lil' Nella-Rose. I've seen her; she done promised
to have me, when I come out o' hidin'. I'm coming out now! Nella-Rose
an' me are goin' to find a bigger place than Pine Cone Settlement. Yo'll
wiggle yer blasted hide loose by mornin' maybe; but then her an' me'll
be where you-all can't ketch us! Go in there, now, you green lizard;
turn about an' get on yer belly like the crawlin' thing yo' are! That's
it--go! the way opens up."

Jed was crawling through the bushes, Lawson after him with levelled gun.
"Now, then, take a seat an' make yerself ter home!" Jed got to the chair
and turned a green-white face upon his tormentor.

"Yer goin' ter let me starve here?" he asked with shaking voice.

"That depends on yo' power to wiggle. See, I tie you so!" Lawson had
pounced upon Jed and had him pinioned. "I ain't goin' ter turn a key on
yer like yo' was aimin' ter do on me! It's up to yo' an' yer wigglin'
powers, when yo' get free. The emptier yer belly is, the more room
ye'll have fer wiggling. God bless yer! yer dog-gone hound! Bless yer
an'--curse yer! I'm off--with the doney-gal!"

And off he was--he and his cruel but gay laugh.

There was no fire in the cave-like place; no light but the indirect
moonlight which slanted through the opening. It was death or wiggle for
Jed Martin--so he wiggled!

In the meantime, Burke headed for Jim White's. He meant to play a high
game there--to fling himself on White's mercy--appeal to the liking he
knew the sheriff had for him--confess his love for Nella-Rose--make his
promise for future redemption and then go, scot-free, to claim the girl
who had declared he might speak when once again he dared walk upright
among his fellows. So Lawson planned and went bravely to the doing of
it.




CHAPTER IX


At Washington, Truedale telegraphed to Brace Kendall. He felt, as he
drew nearer and nearer to the old haunts, like a stranger, and a blind,
groping one at that. The noises of the city disturbed and confused him;
the crowds irritated him. When he remembered the few weeks that lay
between the present and the days when he was part and parcel of this
so-called life, he experienced a sensation of having died and been
compelled to return to earth to finish some business carelessly
overlooked. He meant to rectify the omission as soon as possible and get
back to the safety and peace of the hills. How different it all would be
with settled ideas, definite work, and Nella-Rose!

While waiting for his train in the Washington station he was startled to
find that, of a sudden, he was adrift between the Old and the New. If he
repudiated the past, the future as sternly repudiated him. He could not
reconcile his love and desire with his identity. Somehow the man he had
left, when he went South, appeared now to have been waiting for him on
his return, and while his plans, nicely arranged, seemed feasible the
actual readjustment struck him as lurid and impossible. The fact was
that his experience of life in Pine Cone made him now shrink from
contact with the outside world as one of its loyal natives might have
done. It could no more survive in the garish light of a city day than
little Nella-Rose could have. That conclusion reached, Truedale was
comforted. He could not lure his recent past to this environment, but so
long as it lay safe and ready to welcome him when he should return, he
could be content. So he relegated it with a resigned sigh, as he might
have done the memory of a dear, absent friend, to the time when he could
call it forth to some purpose.

It was well he could do this, for with the coming of Brace Kendall upon
the scene all romantic sensation was excluded as though by an icy-clear,
north wind. Brace was at the New York station--Brace with the armour of
familiarity and unbounded friendliness. "Old Top!" he called Truedale,
and shook hands with him so vigorously that the last remnant of thought
that clung to the distant mountains was freed from the present.

"Well, of all the miracles! Why, Con, I bet you tip the scales at a
hundred and sixty. And look at your paw! Why, it's callous and actually
horny! And the colour you've got! Lord, man! you're made over.

"You're to come to your uncle's house, Con. It's rather a shock, but we
got you as soon as we could. In the meantime, we've followed directions.
The will has not been read, of course, but there was a letter found in
your uncle's desk that commanded--that's the only word to express it,
really--Lynda and you and me to come to the old house right after the
funeral. We waited to hear from you, Con, but since you could not get
here we had to do the best we could. Dr. McPherson took charge."

"I was buried pretty deep in the woods, Ken, and there was a bad hitch
in the delivery of the telegram. Such things do not count down where I
was. But I'm glad about the old house--glad you and Lynda are there."

"Con!"--and at this Brace became serious--"I think we rather overdid our
estimate of your uncle. Since his--his going, we've seen him, Lyn and I,
in a new light. He was quite--well, quite a sentimentalist! But
see--here we are!"

"The house looks different already!" Conning said, leaning from the cab
window.

"Yes, Lyn's had a lot to do, but she's managed to make a home of the
place in the short time."

Lynda Kendall had heard the sound of wheels in the quiet street--had set
the door of welcome open herself, and now stood in the panel of light
with outstretched hands. Like a revelation Truedale seemed to take in
the whole picture at once. Behind the girl lay the warm, bright hall
that had always been so empty and drear in his boyhood. It was furnished
now. Already it had the look of having been lived in for years. There
were flowers in a tall jar on the table and a fire on the broad hearth.
And against this background stood the strong, fine form of the young
mistress.

"Welcome home, Con!"

Truedale, for a moment, dared not trust his voice. He gripped her hands
and felt as if he were emerging from a trance. Then, of a sudden, a deep
resentment overpowered him. They could not understand, of course, but
every word and tone of appropriation seemed an insult to the reality
that he knew existed. He no longer belonged to them, to the life into
which they were trying to draw him. To-morrow he would explain; he was
eager to do so and end the restraint that sprang into being the moment
he touched Lynda's hands.

Lynda watched the tense face confronting her and believed Conning was
suffering pangs of remorse and regret. She was filled with pity and
sympathy shone in her eyes. She led him to the library and there
familiarity greeted him--the room was unchanged. Lynda had respected
everything; it was as it always had been except that the long, low chair
was empty.

They talked together softly in the quiet place until dinner--talked of
indifferent things, realizing that they must keep on the surface.

"This room and his bedchamber, Con," Lynda explained, "are the same.
For the rest? Well, I hope you will like it."

Truedale did like it. He gave an exclamation of delight when later they
entered the dining room, which had never been furnished in the past;
like much of the house it had been a sad tribute to the emptiness and
disappointment that had overcome William Truedale's life. Now it shone
with beauty and cheer.

"It is not merely a place in which to eat," explained Lynda; "a dining
room should be the heart of the home, as the library is the soul."

"Think of living up to that!"--Brace gave a laugh--"and not having it
interfere with your appetite!" They were all trying to keep cheerful
until such time as they dared recall the recent past without restraint.

Such an hour came when they gathered once more in the library. Brace
seized his pipe in the anticipation of play upon his emotions. By tacit
consent the low chair was left vacant and by a touch of imagination it
almost seemed as if the absent master were waiting to be justified.

"And now," Truedale said, huskily, "tell me all, Lynda."

"He and I were sitting here just as we all are sitting now, that last
night. He had forgiven me for--for staying away" (Lynda's voice shook),
"and we were very happy and confidential. I told him some things--quite
intimate things, and he, well, he came out of his reserve and gruffness,
Con--he let me see the real man he was! I suppose while he had been
alone--for I had neglected him--he had had time to think, to regret his
mistakes; he was very just--even with himself. Con"--and here Lynda had
to pause and get control of herself--"he--he once loved my mother! He
bought this house hoping she would come and, as its mistress, make it
beautiful. When my mother married my father, nothing mattered--nothing
about the house, I mean. Before my mother died she told me--to be kind
to Uncle William. She, in a sacred way, left him to me; me to him. That
was one of the things I told him that last night. I wish I had told him
long ago!" The words were passionate and remorseful. "Oh, it might have
eased his pain and loneliness. When shall we ever learn to say the right
thing when it is most needed? Well, after I had told him he--he grew
very still. It was a long time before he spoke--the joy was sinking in,
I saw that, and it carried the bitterness away. When he did speak he
made me understand that he could not trust himself further on that
subject, but he tried to--to explain about you, Con. Poor man! He
realized that he had made a failure as a guide; but in his own way he
had endeavoured to be a guardian. You know his disease developed just
before you came into his life. Con, he lived all through the years just
for you--just to stand by!"

From out the shadow where he sat, Brace spoke unevenly:

"Too bad you don't--smoke, old man!" It was the only suggestion he had
to offer in the tense silence that gripped them all.

"It's all right!" Truedale said heavily. "Go on when you can, Lynda."

"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!

"Con!" Lynda laid her firm hand upon his arm, "I have learned to call it
something else. It has helped me; perhaps it will help you. He had
waited wearily on this side of the door of release; he--he told me that
he was going on a long journey he had often contemplated--I did not
understand then! I fancy the--the journey was very short. There was no
suffering. I wish you could have seen the peace and majesty of his face!
He could wait no longer. Nothing mattered here, and all that he yearned
for called loudly to him. He simply opened the door himself--and went
out!"

Truedale clasped the hand upon his arm. "Thank you, Lynda. I did not
realize how kind you could be," was all he said.

The logs fell apart and filled the room with a rich glow. Brace shook
the ashes from his pipe upon the hearth--he felt now that he could trust
himself.

"For the future," Lynda's calm voice almost startled the two men by its
practicability and purpose, "this is home--in the truest, biggest sense.
No one shall even enter here and feel--friendless. This is my trust; it
shall be as _he_ wished it, and I mean to have my own life, too! Why,
the house is big enough for us all to live our lives and not interfere
with each other. I mean to bring my private business here in the rooms
over the extension. I'll keep the uptown office for interviews. And you,
Con?"

Truedale almost sprang to his feet, then, hands plunged in pockets, he
said:

"There does not seem to be anything for me to do; at least not until the
will is read. I think I shall go back--I left things at loose ends;
there will be time to consider--later."

"But, Con, there is something for you to do. You will understand after
you see the lawyers in the morning. There is a great deal of business:
many interests of your uncle's that he expected you to represent in his
name--to see that they were made secure. Dr. McPherson has told me
something about the will--enough to help me to begin."

Truedale looked blankly at Lynda. "Very well, after that--I will go
back," he spoke almost harshly. "I will arrange affairs somehow. I'm no
business man, but I daresay Uncle William chose wise assistants."

"What's the matter with you, Con?" Brace eyed his friend critically;
"you look fit as a fellow can. This has demanded a good deal of
self-denial and faith from us all, but somehow this duty was the biggest
thing in sight; we rather owe him that, I fancy. You know you cannot run
to cover just now, old man. This has been a jog, but by morning you'll
reconsider and play your part." There was a new note in Kendall's voice.
It was a call to something he hoped was in his friend, but which he had
never tested. There was a sudden fear, too, of the change that had come
to Truedale. It was not all physical. There was a baffling suggestion of
unreality about him that made him almost a stranger.

"I dare say you are right, Ken." Truedale walked the length of the room
and back. "I own to being cut up over this. I never did my part--I see
that now--and of course I'll endeavour to do what I should. My body's
all right but my nerves still jangle at a shock. To-morrow the whole
thing will settle into shape. You and Lynda have been--well--I cannot
express what I feel." He paused. The hour was late, and for the first
time he seemed to realize that the old home was not his in the sense it
once had been. Lynda understood the moment's hesitation and smiled
slightly.

"Con, there's one other thing in the house that remains as it was. Under
the eaves the small room that was yours is yours still. I saw to it
myself that not a book or picture was displaced. There are other rooms
at your disposal--to share with us--but that room is yours, always."

Truedale stood before Lynda and put out his hands in quite the old way.
His eyes were dim and he said hoarsely: "That's about the greatest thing
you've done yet, Lyn. Thank you. Good-night."

At the door he hesitated--he felt he must speak, but to bring his own
affairs into the tense and new conditions surrounding him seemed
impossible. To-morrow he would explain everything. It was this slowness
in reaching a decision that most defeated Truedale's best interest.
While he deplored it--he seemed incapable of overcoming it.

Alone in the little room, later, he let himself go. Burying his tired
head upon his folded arms he gave himself up to waves of recollection
that threatened to engulf him. Everything was as it always had been--a
glance proved that. When he had parted from his uncle he had taken only
such articles as pertained to his maturer years. The pictures on the
walls--the few shabby books that had drifted into his lonely and
misunderstood childhood--remained. There was the locked box containing,
Conning knew full well, the pitiful but sacred attempts at
self-expression. The key was gone, but he recollected every scrap of
paper which lay hidden in the old, dented tin box. Presently he went to
the dormer window and opened it wide. Leaning out he tried to find his
way back to Pine Cone--to the future that was to be free of all these
cramping memories and hurting restrictions--but the trail was too
cluttered; he was lost utterly!

"It is because they do not know," he thought. "After to-morrow it will
be all right."

Then he reflected that the three thousand dollars Lynda had mentioned
would clear every obstacle from his path and Nella-Rose's. He no longer
need struggle--he could give his time and care to her and his work. He
did not consider the rest of his uncle's estate, it did not matter.
Lynda was provided for and so was he. And then, for the first time in
many days, Truedale speculated upon bringing Nella-Rose away from her
hills. He found himself rather insisting upon it, until he brought
himself to terms by remembering her as he had seen her last--clinging to
her own, vehemently, passionately.

"No, I've made my choice," he finally exclaimed; "the coming back
unsettled me for the moment but her people shall be my people."

Below stairs Lynda was humming softly an old tune--"The Song of
To-morrow," it was called. It caught and held Truedale's imagination. He
tried to recall the lines, but only the theme was clear. It was the
everlasting Song of To-morrow, always the one tune set to changing
ideals.

It was the same idea as the philosophy about each man's "interpretation"
of the story already written, which Conning had reflected upon so often.

At this time Truedale believed he firmly accepted the principle of
foreordination, or whatever one chose to call it. One followed the path
upon which one's feet had been set. One might linger and wander, within
certain limits, but always each must return to his destined trail!

A distant church clock struck one; the house was still at last--deathly
still. Two sounded, but Truedale thought on.

He finally succeeded in eliminating the entangling circumstances that
seemed to lie like a twisted skein in the years stretching between his
going forth from his uncle's house to this night of return. He tried to
understand himself, to estimate the man he was. In no egotistical sense
did he do this, but sternly, deliberately, because he felt that the
future demanded it. He must account to others, but first he must account
to himself.

He recalled his boyhood days when his uncle's distrust and apparent
dislike of him had driven him upon himself, almost taking self-respect
with it. He re-lived the barren years when, longing for love and
companionship, he found solace in a cold pride that carried him along
through school and into college, with a reputation for hard, unyielding
work, and unsocial habits.

How desperately lonely he had been--how cruelly underestimated--but he
had made no outcry. He had lived his years uncomplainingly--not even
voicing his successes and achievements. Through long practise in
self-restraint, his strength lay in deliberate calculation--not
indifferent action. He hid, from all but the Kendalls, his private
ambitions and hopes. He studied in order that he might shake himself
free from his uncle's hold upon him. He meant to pay every cent he had
borrowed--to secure, by some position that would supply the bare
necessities of life, time and opportunity for developing the talent he
secretly believed was his. He was prepared, once loose from obligation
to old William Truedale, to starve and prove his faith. And then--his
breakdown had come!

Cast adrift by loss of health, among surroundings that appealed to all
that was most dangerous in his nature--believing that his former
ambitions were defeated--old longings for love, understanding and
self-revealment arose and conquered the weak creature he was. But they
had appealed to the best in him--not the evillest--thank God! And now?
Truedale raised his head and looked about in the dim room, as if to find
the boy he once had been and reassure him.

"There is no longer any excuse for hesitation and the damnable weakness
of considering the next step," thought Truedale. "I have chosen my own
course--chosen the simple and best things life has to offer. No man in
God's world has a right to question my deeds. If they cannot understand,
more's the pity."

And in that hour and conclusion, the indifference and false pride that
had upheld Truedale in the past fell from him as he faced the demands of
the morrow. He was never again to succumb to the lack of confidence his
desolate youth had developed; physically and spiritually he roused to
action now that exactions were made upon him.




CHAPTER X


The following day Truedale heard the will read. Directly after, he felt
like a man in a quicksand. Every thought and motion seemed but to sink
him deeper until escape appeared impossible.

He had felt, for a moment, a little surprise that the bulk of his
uncle's great fortune had gone to Dr. McPherson--an already rich and
prosperous man; then he began to understand. Although McPherson was left
free to act as he chose, there had evidently been an agreement between
him and William Truedale as to the carrying out of certain affairs and,
what was more startling and embarrassing, Conning was hopelessly
involved in these. Under supervision, apparently, he was to be
recognized as his uncle's representative and, while not his direct heir,
certainly his respected nephew.

Truedale was confounded. Unless he were to disregard his uncle's wishes,
there was no way open for him but to follow--as he was led. Far from
being dissatisfied with the distribution of the fortune, he had been
relieved to know that he was responsible for only a small part of it;
but, on the other hand, should he refuse to cooperate in the schemes
outlined by McPherson, he knew that he would be miserably
misunderstood.

Confused and ill at ease he sought McPherson later in the day and that
genial and warm-hearted man, shrinking always behind so stern an
exterior that few comprehended him, greeted him almost affectionately.

"I ordered six months for you, Truedale," he exclaimed, viewing the
result of his prescription keenly, "and you've made good in a few weeks.
You're a great advertisement for Pine Cone. And White! Isn't he God's
own man?"

"I hadn't thought of him in just that way"--Conning reverted to his last
memory of the sheriff--"but he probably showed another side to you. He
has a positive reverence for you and I imagine he accepted me as a duty
you had laid upon him."

"Nonsense, boy! his health reports were eulogies--he was your friend.

"But isn't he a freebooter with all his other charms? His contempt for
government, as we poor wretches know it, is sublime; and yet he is the
safest man I know. The law, he often told me, was like a lie; useful
only to scoundrels--torn-down scoundrels, he called them.

"I tell you it takes a God's man to run justice in those hills! White's
as simple and direct as a child and as wise as a judge ought to be. I
wouldn't send some folk I know to White, they might blur his vision;
but I could trust him to you."

Silently Truedale contemplated this image of White; then, as McPherson
talked on, the dead uncle materialized so differently from the stupid
estimate he had formed of him that a sense of shame overpowered him.
Lynda had somewhat opened Truedale's eyes, but Lynda's love and
compassion unconsciously coloured the picture she drew. Here was a
hard-headed business man, a man who had been close to William Truedale
all his life, proving him now, to his own nephew, as a far-sighted,
wise, even patient and merciful friend.

Never had Truedale felt so small and humble. Never had his past
indifference and false pride seemed so despicable and egotistical--his
return for the silent confidence reposed in him, so pitifully shameful.

He must bear his part now! There was no way but that! If he were ever to
regain his own self-respect or hope to hold that of others, he must, to
the exclusion of private inclination, rise as far as in him lay to the
demands made upon him.

"Your uncle," McPherson was saying, "tied hand and foot as he was,
looked far and wide during his years of illness. I thought I knew,
thought I understood him; but since his death I have almost felt that he
was inspired. It's a damnable pity that our stupidity and callousness
prevent us realizing in life what we are quick enough to perceive in
death--when it is too late! Truedale's faith in me, when I gave him so
little to go by, is both flattering and touching. He knew he could trust
me--and that knowledge is the best thing he bequeathed to me. But I
expect you to do your part, boy, and by so doing to justify much that
might, otherwise, be questioned. To begin with, as you have just heard,
the sanatorium for cases like your uncle's is to be begun at once. Now
there is a strip of land, which, should it suit our purpose, can be had
at great advantage if taken at once, and for cash. We will run down to
see it this week and then we'll know better where we stand."

"I'd like," Truedale coloured quickly, "to return to Pine Cone for a few
days. I could start at once. You see I left rather suddenly and
brought--"

But McPherson laughed and waved his hand in the wide gesture that
disposed of hope and fear, lesser business and even death itself, at
times.

"Oh! Jim won't tamper with anything. Certainly your traps are safe
enough there. Such things can wait, but this land-deal cannot. Besides
there are men to see: architects, builders, etc. The wishes of your
uncle were most explicit. The building, you recall, was to be begun
within three months of his death. Having all the time there was,
himself, he has left precious little for others."

Again the big laugh and wide gesture disposed of Pine Cone and the
tragic affairs of little Nella-Rose. Unless he was ready to lay bare his
private reasons, Truedale saw he must wait a few days longer. And he
certainly had no intention of confiding in McPherson.

"Very well, doctor," he said after a slight pause, "set me to work. I
want you to know that as far as I can I mean--too late, as you say--to
prove my good intentions at least to--my uncle."

"That's the way to talk!" McPherson rose and slapped Conning on the
back. "I used to say to old Truedale, that if he had taken you more into
his confidence, he might have eased life for us all; but he was timid,
boy, timid. In many ways he was like a woman--a woman hurt and
sensitive."

"If I had only known--only imagined"; Conning was walking toward the
door; "well, at least I'm on the job now, Dr. McPherson."

And then for an hour or two Truedale walked the city streets perplexed
and distraught. He was being absorbed without his own volition. By a
subtle force he was convinced that he was part of a scheme bigger and
stronger than his own desires and inclinations. Unless he was prepared
to play a coward's role he must adjust his thoughts and ideas to
coincide with the rules and regulations of the game of life and men.
With this knowledge other and more blighting convictions held part. In
his defiance and egotism he had muddled things in a desperate way. In
the cold, clear light of conventional relations the past few weeks,
shorn of the glamour cast by his romantic love and supposed contempt for
social restrictions, stood forth startlingly significant. At the moment
Truedale could not conceive how he had ever been capable of playing the
fool as he had! Not for one instant did this realization affect his love
and loyalty to Nella-Rose; but that he should have been swept from his
moorings by passion, reduced him to a state of contempt for the folly he
had perpetrated. And, he thought, if he now, after a few days, could so
contemplate his acts how could he suppose that others would view them
with tolerance and sympathy?

No; he must accept the inevitable results of his action. His love, his
earnest intention of some day living his own life in his own way, were
to cost him more than he, blinded by selfishness and passion in the
hills, had supposed.

Well, he was ready to pay to the uttermost though it cost him the
deepest heart-ache. As he was prepared to undertake the burden his
uncle's belief in him entailed, so he was prepared, now that he saw
things clearly, to forego the dearest and closest ties of his old life.

He wondered how he could ever have dreamed that he could go to Lynda and
Brace with his amazing confession and expect them, in the first moment
of shock, to open their hearts and understand him. He almost laughed,
now, as he pictured the absurdity. And just then he drew himself up
sharply and came to his conclusion.

He could not lay himself bare to any one as a sentimental ass; he must
arrange things as soon as possible to return South; he would, just
before starting, tell Lynda and Brace of his attachment for Nella-Rose.
They would certainly understand why, in the stress and strain of recent
events, he had not intruded his startling news before. He would neither
ask nor expect sympathy or cooperation. He must assume that they could
not comprehend him. This was going to be the hardest wrench of his life,
Truedale recognized that, but it was the penalty he felt he must pay.

Then he would go--for his wife! He would secure her privately, by all
the necessary conventions he had spurned so madly--he would bring her to
his people and leave to her sweetness and tender charm the winning of
that which he, in his blindness, had all but lost.

So, in this mood, he returned to his uncle's house and wrote a long
letter to Nella-Rose. He phrased it simply, as to a little child. He
reminded her of the old story she had once told him of her belief that
some day she was to do a mighty big thing.

"And now you have your chance!" he pleaded. "I cannot live in your
hills, dear, though often you and I will return to them and be happy in
the little log house. But you must come with me--your husband. Come
down the Big Road, letting me lead you, and you must trust me and oh! my
doney-gal, by your blessed sweetness and power you must win for me--for
us both--what I, alone, can never win."

There was more, much more, of love and longing, of tender loyalty and
passionate reassurance, and having concluded his letter he sealed it,
addressed it, and putting it in an envelope with a short note of
explanation to Jim White as to its delivery, etc., he mailed it with
such a sense of relief as he had not known in many a weary day.

He prepared himself for a period of patient waiting. He knew with what
carelessness mail matter was regarded in the hills, and winter had
already laid its hold upon Pine Cone, he felt sure. So while he waited
he plunged eagerly into each day's work and with delight saw how
everything seemed to go through without a hitch. It began to look as if,
when Nella-Rose's reply came, there would be no reason for delay in
bringing her to the North.

But this hope and vision did not banish entirely Truedale's growing
sorrow for the part he must inevitably take when the truth was known to
Lynda and Brace. Harder and harder the telling of it appeared as the
time drew near. Never had they seemed dearer or more sacred to him than
now when he realized the hurt he must cause them. There were moments
when he felt that he could not bear the eyes of Lynda--those friendly,
trusting eyes. Would she ever be able, in the years to come, to forgive
and forget? And Brace--how could that frank, direct nature comprehend
the fever of madness that had, in the name of love, betrayed the
confidence and faith of a lifetime? Well, much lay in the keeping of the
little mountain girl whose fascination and loveliness would plead
mightily. Of Nella-Rose's power Truedale held no doubt.

Then came White's devastating letter at the close of an exhausting day
when Conning was to dine with the Kendalls.

That afternoon he had concluded the immediate claims of business, had
arranged with McPherson for a week's absence, and meant in the evening
to explain to Brace and Lynda the reason for his journey. He was going
to start South on the morrow, whether a letter came or not. He had
steeled himself for the crucial hour with his friends; had already, in
his imagination, bidden farewell to the relations that had held them
close through the past years. He believed, because he was capable of
paying this heavy price for his love, that no further proof would be
necessary to convince even Lynda of its intensity.

They dined cheerfully and alone and, as they crossed the hall afterward,
to the library, Lynda asked casually:

"Did you get the letters for you, Con? The maid laid them on the stand
by the door."

Then she went on into the bright room with its long, vacant chair,
singing "To-morrow's Song" in that sweet contralto of hers that deserved
better training.

There were three letters--one from a man whose son Truedale had tutored
before he went away, one from the architect of the new hospital, and a
bulky one from Dr. McPherson. Truedale carried them all into the library
where Brace sat comfortably puffing away before the fire; and Lynda,
some designs for interior decoration spread out before her on a low
table, still humming, rocked gently to and fro in a very feminine
rocker. Conning drew up a chair opposite Kendall and tore open the
envelope from his late patron.

"I tell you, Brace," he said, "if any one had told me six weeks ago that
I should ever be indifferent to a possible offer to tutor, I would have
laughed at him. But so it is. I must turn down the sure-paying Mr. Smith
for lack of time."

Lynda laughed merrily. "And six weeks ago if any one had come to me in
my Top Shelf where I carried on my profession, and outlined this for
me"--she waved her hand around the room--"I'd have called the janitor to
put out an unsafe person. Hey-ho!" And then the brown head was bent over
the problem of an order which had come in that day.

"Oh! I say, Lyn!" Truedale turned from his second letter. "Morgan
suggests that _you_ attend to the decorating and furnishing of the
hospital. I told him to choose his man and he prefers you if I have no
objection. Objection? Good Lord, I never thought of you. I somehow
considered such work out of your line, but I'm delighted."

"Splendid!" Lynda looked up, radiant. "How I shall revel in those broad,
clean spaces! How I shall see Uncle William in every room! Thank him,
Con, and tell him I accept--on his terms!"

Then Truedale opened the third envelope and an enclosed letter fell out,
bearing the postmark of the Junction near Pine Cone!

There was a small electric reading lamp on the arm of Truedale's chair;
he turned the light on and, while his face was in shadow, the words
before him stood out illumined.

"Sir--Mister Truedale." The sheriff had evidently been sorely perplexed
as to the proper beginning of the task he had undertaken.

"I send this by old Doc McPherson, not knowing any better way."

(Jim's epistle was nearly innocent of punctuation, his words ran on
almost unbroken and gave the reader some trouble in following.)

     Your letter to a certain young person has come and been destroyed
     owing to my thinking under the present circumstances, some folks
     what don't know about you, better not hear now. I took the letter
     to Lone Dome as you set down for me to do meaning to give it to
     Nella-Rose like what you said, but she wasn't there. Pete was there
     and Marg--she's Nella-Rose's sister, and getting ready to marry
     that torn-down scamp Jed Martin which to my way of thinking is
     about the best punishment what could be dealt out to him. Pete was
     right sober for him and spruced up owing to facts I am now coming
     to and when Pete's sober there ain't a more sensible cuss than what
     he is nor a gentlemaner. Well, I asked natural like for Nella-Rose
     and Marg scrooged up her mouth, knowing full well as how I knew Jed
     was second choice for her--but Pete he done tell me that Nella-Rose
     had married Burke Lawson and run to safer parts and when I got over
     the shock I was certainly thankful for being a sheriff ain't all it
     might be when your ideas of justice and liking gets crossed. I
     didn't ask any more questions. Peter was sober--he only lies when
     he's drunk and not having any wish to rouse Marg I just come away
     and burned the letter what you sent. But I've done some thinking on
     my own 'count since your letter came and I reckon I've studied the
     thing clear on circumstantial evidence which is what I mostly have
     to go on in the sticks. I certainly done you a black insult that
     day I came upon you and Nella-Rose. I didn't let on, and I never
     will, about her being to my place, but no wonder the poor child was
     terrible upset when I came in. She had come to me, so I study out,
     and found you--stark stranger! How you ever soothed the poor little
     thing I don't know--her being wild as a flea--but on top of that,
     in I slam and lit out on you both and 'corse she couldn't 'splain
     about Burke before you and that's plain enough what she had come to
     do, and I didn't leave either one of you a leg to stand on. I've
     been pretty low in my spirits I can tell you and I beg your pardon
     humble, young feller, and if ever I can do Nella-Rose a turn by
     letting Burke free, no matter what he does--I will! But 'tain't
     likely he'll act up for some time. Nella-Rose always could tame him
     and he's been close on her trail ever since she was a toddler. I'm
     right glad they took things in their own hands and left. She didn't
     sense the right black meaning I had in my heart that day when she
     ran--but you did and I sure am ashamed of the part I done played.

     If you can overlook what no man has a call to overlook in
     another--your welcome is red hot here for you at any time.

     JIM WHITE

     Sheriff.

Truedale read and reread this amazing production until he began to feel
his way through the tangle of words and catch a meaning--false,
ridiculously false of course, but none the less designed as an
explanation and excuse. Then the non-essentials dropped away and one
bald fact remained! Truedale sank back in his chair, turned off the
electric light, and closed his eyes.

"Tired, old man?" Kendall asked from across the hearth.

"Yes. Dead tired."

"You'll travel easier when you get the gait."

"Undoubtedly."

"Take a bit of a nap," Lynda suggested.

"Thanks, Lyn, I will." Then Truedale, safe from intrusion, tried to make
his way out of the maze into which he had been thrown. Slowly he
recovered from the effect of the staggering blow and presently got to
the point where he felt it was all a cruel lie or a stupid jest. There
he paused. Jim was not the kind to lie or joke about such a thing. It
was a mistake--surely a mistake. He would go at once to Pine Cone and
make everything right. Nella-Rose could not act alone. Tradition,
training, conspired to unfit her for this crisis; but that she had gone
from his love and faith into the arms of another man was incredible. No;
she was safe, probably in hiding; she would write him. She had the
address--she was keen and quick, even though she was helpless to cope
with the lawlessness of her mountain environment. Truedale saw the
necessity of caution, not for himself, but for Nella-Rose. He could not
go, unaided, to search for her. Evidently there had been wild doings
after he left; no one but White and Nella-Rose knew of his actual
existence--he must utilize White in assisting him, but above all he must
expect that Nella-Rose would make her whereabouts known. Never for a
moment did he doubt her or put any credence in the conclusions White had
drawn. How little Jim really knew! By to-morrow word would come from
Nella-Rose; somehow she would manage, once she was safe from being
followed, to get to the station and telegraph. But there could be no
leaving the girl in the hills after this; he must, as soon as he located
her, bring her away; bring her into his life--to his home and hers!

A cold sweat broke out on Truedale's body as he lashed himself
unmercifully in the still room where his two friends, one believing him
asleep, waited for his awakening.

Well, he was awake at last, thank God! The only difference between him
and a creature such as good men and women abhor was that he meant to
retrieve, as far as in him lay, the past error and injustice. All his
future life should prove his purpose. And then, like a sweet fragrance
or a spirit touch, his love pleaded for him. He had been weak, but not
vicious. The unfettered life had clouded his reason, and his senses had
played him false, but love was untarnished--and it _was_ love. That girl
of the hills was the same now as she had always been. She would accept
him and his people and he would make her life such that, once the
homesickness for the hills was past, she would have no regrets.

Then another phase held Truedale's thought. In that day when Nella-Rose
accepted, in the fullest sense, his people and his people's code--how
would he stand in her eyes? A groan escaped him, then another, and he
started nervously.

"Con, what is it--a bad dream?" Lynda touched his arm to arouse him.

"Yes--a mighty bad one!"

"Tell it to me. Tell it while it is fresh in your mind. They say once
you have put a dream in words, its effect is killed forever."

Truedale turned dark, sorrowful eyes upon Lynda.

"I--I wish I could tell it," he said with a seriousness that made her
laugh, "but it was the kind that eludes--words. The creeping, eating
impression--sort of nightmare. Good Lord! how nerves play the deuce with
you."

Brace Kendall did not speak. From his place he had been watching
Truedale, for the firelight had betrayed the truth. Truedale had not
been sleeping: Truedale had been terribly upset by that last letter of
his!

And just then Conning leaned forward and threw his entire mail upon the
blazing logs!




CHAPTER XI


For Truedale to await, calmly, further developments was out of the
question. He did, however, force himself to act as sanely as possible.
He felt confident that Nella-Rose, safely hidden and probably enjoying
it in her own elfish way, would communicate with him in a few days at
the latest, now that things had, according to White, somewhat settled
into shape after the outlaw Lawson had taken himself off the scene.

To get to the station and telegraph would mean quite a feat for
Nella-Rose at any time, and winter was in all likelihood already
gripping the hills. To write and send a letter might be even more
difficult. So Truedale reasoned; so he feverishly waited, but he was not
idle. He rented a charming little suite of rooms, high up in a new
apartment house, and begged Lynda to set them in order at once. Somehow
he believed that in the years ahead, after she understood, Lynda would
be glad that he had asked this from her.

"But why the hurry, Con?" she naturally questioned; "if people are going
to be so spasmodic I'll have to get a partner. It may be all right,
looked at financially, but it's the ruination of art."

"But this is a special case, Lyn."

"They're all special cases."

"But this is a--welcome."

"For whom?"

"Well, for me! You see I've never had a real home, Lyn. It's one of the
luxuries I've always dreamed of."

"I had thought," Lynda's clear eyes clouded, "that your uncle's house
would be your home at last. It is big enough for us all--we need not run
against each other."

"Keep my room under the roof, Lyn." Truedale looked at her yearningly
and she--misunderstood! "I shall often come to that--to you and
Brace--but humour me in this fancy of mine."

So she humoured him--working early and late--putting more of her own
heart in it than he was ever to know, for she believed--poor girl--that
he would offer it to her some day and then--when he found out about the
money--how exactly like a fairy tale it all would be! And Lynda had had
so few fairy tales in her life.

And while she designed and Conning watched and suggested, they talked of
his long-neglected work.

"You'll have time soon, Con, to give it your best thought. Did you do
much while you were away?"

"Yes, Lyn, a great deal!" Truedale was sitting by the tiny hearth in his
diminutive living room. He and Lynda had demanded, and finally
succeeded in obtaining an open space for real logs; disdaining, much to
the owner's amazement, an asbestos mat or gas monstrosity. "I really put
blood in the thing."

"And when may I hear some of it? I'm wild to get back to our beaten
tracks."

Truedale raised his eyes, but he was looking beyond Lynda; he was seeing
Nella-Rose in the nest he was preparing for her.

"Soon, Lyn. Soon. And when you do--you, of all the world, will
understand, sympathize, and approve."

"Thank you, Con, thank you. Of course I will, but it is good to have you
know it! Let me see, what colour scheme shall we introduce in the living
room?"

"Couldn't we have a sort of blue-gray; a rather smoky tint with sunshine
in it?"

"Good heavens, Con! And it is a north room, too."

"Well, then, how about a misty, whitish--"

"Worse and worse. Con, in a north room there must be warmth and real
colour."

"There will be. But put what you choose, Lyn, it will surely be all
right."

"Suppose, then, we make it golden brown, or--dull, soft reds?"

Truedale recalled the shabby little shawl that Nella-Rose had worn
before she donned her winter disguise.

"Make it soft dull red, Lyn--but not _too_ dull."

Truedale no longer meant to lay his secret bare before departing for the
South. While he would not acknowledge it to his anxious heart, he
realized that he must base the future on the outcome of his journey.
Once he laid hands upon Nella-Rose, he would act promptly and hopefully,
but--he must be sure, now, before he made a misstep. There had been
mistakes enough, heaven knew; he must no longer play the fool.

And then when the little gilded cage was ready, Truedale conceived his
big and desperate idea. Two weeks had passed since Jim White's letter
and no telegram or note had come from Nella-Rose. Neither love nor
caution could wait longer. Truedale decided to go to Pine Cone. Not as a
returned traveller, certainly not--at first--to White, but to Lone Dome,
and there, passing himself off as a chance wayfarer, he would gather as
much truth as he could, estimate the value of it, and upon it take his
future course. In all probability, he thought--and he was almost gay now
that he was about to take matters into his own hands--he would ferret
out the real facts and be back with his quarry before another week. It
was merely a matter of getting the truth and being on the spot.

Nella-Rose's family might, for reasons of their own, have deceived Jim
White. Certainly if they did not know at the time of Nella-Rose's
whereabouts they would, like others, voice the suspicion of the hills;
but by now they would either have her with them or know positively where
she was. For all his determination to believe this, Truedale had his
moments of sickening doubt. The simple statement in White's letter,
burned, as time went on, into his very soul.

But, whatever came--whatever there was to know--he meant to go at once
to headquarters. He would remain, too, until Peter Greyson was sober
enough to state facts. He recalled clearly Jim's estimate of Greyson and
his dual nature depending so largely upon the effect of the mountain
whisky.

It was late November when Truedale set forth. No one made any objection
to his going now. Things were running smoothly and if he had to go at
all to straighten out any loose ends, he had better go at once.

To Lynda the journey seemed simple enough. Truedale had left, among
other belongings, his manuscript and books. Naturally he would not trust
them to another's careless handling.

At Washington, Truedale bought a rough tramping rig and continued his
journey with genuine enjoyment of the adventure. Now that he was nearing
the scene of his past experience he could better understand the delay.
Things moved so slowly among the hills and naturally Nella-Rose,
trusting and fond, was part of the sluggish life. How she would show her
small, white teeth when, smiling in his arms, she told him all about it!
It would not take long to make her forget the weary time of absence and
White's misconception.

Truedale proceeded by deliberate stages. He wanted to gather all he
possibly could as a foundation upon which to build. The first day after
he left the train at the station--and it had bumped at the end of the
rails just as it had on his previous trip--he walked to the Centre and
there encountered Merrivale.

"Well, stranger," the old man inquired, "whar yer goin', if it ain't
askin' too much?"

And Truedale expansively explained. He was tramping through the
mountains for pure enjoyment; had heard of the hospitality he might
expect and meant to test it.

Merrivale was pleased but cautious. He was full of questions himself,
but ran to cover every time his visitor ventured one. Truedale soon
learned his lesson and absorbed what was offered without openly claiming
more. He remained over night with Merrivale and stocked up the next
morning from the store.

He had heard much, but little to any purpose. He carried away with him a
pretty clear picture of Burke Lawson who, by Merrivale's high favour,
appeared heroic. The storm, the search, Lawson's escape and supposed
carrying off of Nella-Rose, were the chief topics of conversation.
Merrivale chuckled in delight over this.

The afternoon of the second day Truedale reached Lone Dome and came upon
Peter, sober and surprisingly respectable, sunning himself on the west
side of the house.

The first glance at the stately old figure, gone to decay like a tree
with dead rot, startled and amazed Truedale and he thanked heaven that
the master of Lone Dome was himself and therefore to be relied upon; no
one could possibly suspect Peter of cunning or deceit in his present
condition.

Greyson greeted the stranger cordially. He was in truth desperately
forlorn and near the outer edge of endurance. An hour more and he would
have defied the powers that had recently taken control of him, and made
for the still in the deep woods; but the coming of Truedale saved him
from that and diverted his tragic thoughts.

The fact was Marg and Jed had gone away to be married. Owing to the
death of the near-by minister in the late storm, they had to travel a
considerable distance in order to begin life according to Marg's strict
ideas of propriety. Before leaving she had impressed upon her father the
necessity of his keeping a clear head in her absence.

"We-all may be gone days, father," she had said, "and yo' certainly do
drop in owdacious places when you're drunk. Yo' might freeze or starve.
Agin, a lurking beast, hunting fo' food, might chaw yo' fo' yo' got yo'
senses."

Something of this Greyson explained to his guest while setting forth the
evening meal and apologizing for the lack of stimulant.

"Being her marriage trip I let Marg have her way and a mind free o'
worry 'bout me. But women don't understand, God bless 'em! What's a drop
in yo' own home? But fo' she started forth Marg spilled every jug onto
the wood pile. When I see the flames extry sparkling I know the reason!"

Greyson chuckled, walking to and fro from table to pantry, with steady,
almost dignified strides.

"That's all right," Truedale hastened to say, "I'm rather inclined to
agree with your daughter; and--" raising the concoction Peter had
evolved--"this tea--"

"Coffee, sir."

"Excuse me! This coffee goes right to the spot."

They ate and grew confidential. Edging close, but keeping under cover,
Truedale gained the confidence of the lonely, broken man and, late in
the evening, the hideous truth, as Truedale was compelled to believe,
was in his keeping.

For an hour Greyson had been nodding and dozing; then, apologetically,
rousing. Truedale once suggested bed, but for some unexplainable reason
Peter shrank from leaving his guest. Then, risking a great deal,
Truedale asked nonchalantly:

"Have you other children besides this daughter who is on her wedding
trip? It's rather hard--leaving you alone to shift for yourself."

Greyson was alert. Not only did he share the mountain dweller's wariness
of question, but he instantly conceived the idea that the stranger had
heard gossip and he was in arms to defend his own. His ancestors, who
long ago had shielded the recreant great-aunt, were no keener than Peter
now was to protect and preserve the honour of the little girl who, by
her recent acts--and Greyson had only Jed's words and the mountain talk
to go by--had aroused in him all that was fine enough to suffer. And
Greyson was suffering as only a man can who, in a rare period of
sobriety, views the wrecks of his own making.

Ordinarily, as White truly supposed, Peter lied only when he was drunk;
but the sheriff could not estimate the vagaries of blood and so, at
Truedale's question, the father of Nella-Rose, with the gesture
inherited from a time of prosperity, rallied his forces and lied! Lied
like a gentleman, he would have said. Broken and shabby as Greyson was,
he appeared, at that moment, so simple and direct, that his listener,
holding to the sheriff's estimate, was left with little doubt concerning
what he heard. He, watching the weak and agonized face, believed Greyson
was making the best of a sad business; but that he was weaving from
whole cloth the garment that must cover the past, Truedale in his own
misery never suspected. While he listened something died within him
never to live again.

"Yes, sir. I have another daughter--lil' Nella-Rose."

Truedale shaded his face with his hand, but kept his eyes on Greyson's
distorted face.

"Lil' Nella-Rose. I have to keep in mind her youth and enjoying ways or
I'd be right hard on Nella-Rose. Yo' may have heard, while travelling
about--o' Nella-Rose?" This was asked nervously--searchingly.

"I've--I've heard that name," Truedale ventured. "It's a name
that--somehow clings and, being a writer-man, everything interests me."

Then Greyson gave an account of the trap episode tallying so exactly
with White's version that it established a firm structure upon which to
lay all that was to follow.

"And there ain't nothing as can raise a woman's tenderness and loyalty
to a man," Greyson went on, "like getting into a hard fix, and sho'
Burke Lawson was in a right bad fix.

"I begin to see it all now. Nella-Rose went to Merrivale's and he told
her Burke had come back. Merrivale told me that. Naturally it upset her
and she followed him up to warn him. Think o' that lil' girl tracking
'long the hills, through all that storm, to--to save the man she had
played with and flouted but loved, without knowing it! Nella-Rose was
like that. She lit on things and took her fun--but in the big parts she
always did come out strong."

Truedale shifted his position.

"I reckon I'm wearying you with my troubles?" Greyson spoke
apologetically.

"No, no. Go on. This interests me very much."

"Well, sir, Burke Lawson and Jed Martin came on each other in the deep
woods the night of the big storm and Burke and Jed had words and a
scene. Jed owned up to that. It was life and death and I ain't blaming
any one and I have one thing to thank Burke for--he might have done
different and left a stain on a lady's name, sir! He told Jed how he had
seen Nella-Rose and how she had scorned him for being a coward, but how
she would take her words back if he dared come out and show his head.
And he 'lowed he was going to come out then and there, which he did, and
he and Nella-Rose was going off to Cataract Falls where the Lawsons
hailed from, on the mother's side."

"But--how do you know that your daughter kept her word? This Lawson may
have been obliged to make away with himself--alone." Truedale grew more
daring. He saw that Greyson, absorbed by his trouble, was less on guard.
But Greyson was keenly observant.

"He's heard the gossip," thought the old man, "it's ringing through the
hills. Well, a dog as can fetch a bone can carry one!" With that
conclusion reached, Peter made his master stroke.

"I've heard from her," he half whispered.

"Heard from her?" gasped Truedale, and even then Greyson seemed unaware
of the attitude of the stranger. "How--did you hear from her?"

"She wrote and sent the letter long of--of Bill Trim, a half-wit--but
trusty. Nella-Rose went with Lawson--she 'lowed she had to. He came on
her in the woods and held her to her word. She said as how she wanted
to--to come home, but Lawson set forth as how an hour might mean his
life--and put it up to lil' Nella-Rose! He--he swore as how he'd shoot
himself if she didn't go with him--and it was like Burke to do it. He
was always crazy mad for Nella-Rose, and there ain't anything he
wouldn't do when he got balked. She--she had ter go--or see Lawson kill
himself; so she went--but asked my pardon fo' causing the deep trouble.
Lawson married her at the first stopping place over the ridge. He ain't
worthy o' my lil' Nella-Rose--but us-all has got to make the best o'
it. Come spring--she'll be back, and then--I'll forgive her--my lil'
Nella-Rose!"

From the intensity of his emotions Greyson trembled and the weak tears
ran down his lined face. Taking advantage of the tense moment Truedale
asked desperately:

"Will you show me that letter, Mr. Greyson?"

So direct was the request, so apparently natural to the old man's
unguarded suffering, that it drove superficialities before it and merely
confirmed Greyson in his determination to save Nella-Rose's reputation
at any cost. Ignoring the unwarrantable curiosity, alert to the
necessity of quick defense, he said:

"I can't. I wish to Gawd I could and then I could stop any tongue what
dares to tech my lil' gal's name."

"Why can you not show me the letter?" Truedale was towering above the
old man. By some unknown power he had got control of the situation. "I
have a reason for--asking this, Mr. Greyson."

"Marg burned it! It was allus Marg or lil' Nella-Rose for Lawson, and
Nella-Rose got him! When Marg knew this fur certain, there was no length
to which she--didn't go! This is my home, sir; I'm old--Marg is a good
girl and the trouble is past now; her and Jed is making me comfortable,
but we-all don't mention Nella-Rose. It eases me, though, to tell the
truth for lil' Nella-Rose. I know how the tongues are wagging and I have
to sit still fo'--since Marg and Jed took up with each other--my future
lies 'long o' them. I'm an old man and mighty dependent; time was
when--" Greyson rose unsteadily and swayed toward the fireplace.

"Gawd a'mighty!" he flung out desperately, "how I want--whisky!"

Truedale saw the wildness in the old man's eyes--saw the trembling and
twitching of the outstretched hands, and feared what might be the result
of trouble and enforced sobriety. He pulled a large flask from his
pocket and offered it.

"Here!" he said, "take a swallow of this and pull yourself together."

Greyson, with a cry, seized the liquor and drained every drop before
Truedale could control him.

"God bless yo'!" whined Greyson, sinking back into his chair, "bless
and--and keep yo'!"

Truedale dared not leave the house though his soul recoiled from the
sight before him. He waited an hour, watching the effect of the
stimulant. Greyson grew mellow after a time--at peace with the world; he
smiled foolishly and became maudlinly familiar. Finally, Truedale
approached him again. He bent over him and shook him sharply.

"Did you tell me--the truth--about--Nella-Rose?" he whispered to the
sagging, blear-eyed creature.

"Yes, sir!" moaned Peter, "I sho' did!"

And Truedale did not reflect that when Greyson was-drunk--he lied!

Truedale never recalled clearly how he spent the hours between the time
he left Greyson's until he knocked on the door of White's cabin; but it
was broad daylight and bitingly cold when Jim flung the door open and
looked at the stranger with no idea, for a moment, that he had ever seen
him before. Then, putting his hand out wonderingly, he muttered:

"Gawd!" and drew Truedale in. Breakfast was spread on the table; the
dogs lay before the blazing fire.

"Eat!" commanded Jim, "and keep yer jaws shet except to put in food."

Conning attempted the feat but made a pitiful showing.

"Come to stay on?"

White's curiosity was betraying him and the sympathy in his eyes filled
Truedale with a mad desire to take this "God's man" into his confidence.

"No, Jim. I've come to pack and go back to--to my job!"

"Gosh! it can't be much of a job if you can tackle it--lookin' like what
you do!"

"I've been tramping for--for days, old man! Rather overdone the thing.
I'm not so bad as I look."

"Glad to hear it!" laconically.

"I'll put up with you to-night, Jim, if you'll take me in." Truedale
made an effort to smile.

"Provin' there ain't any hard feeling?"

"There never was, White. I--understood."

"Shake!"

They got through the day somehow. The crust was forming over Truedale's
suffering; he no longer had any desire to let even White break through
it. Once, during the afternoon, the sheriff spoke of Nella-Rose and
without flinching Truedale listened.

"That gal will have Burke eatin' out o' her hand in no time. Lawson is
all right at the kernel, all he needed was some one ter steady him. Once
I made sure he'd married the gal, I felt right easy in my mind."

"And you--did make sure, Jim? There was no doubt? I--I remember the
pretty little thing; it would have been damnable to--to hurt her."

"I scrooged the main fact out o' old Pete, her father. There was a
mighty lot o' talk in the hills, but I was glad ter get the facts and
shut the mouths o' them that take ter--ter hissin' like all-fired
scorpions! Nella-Rose had writ to her father, but Marg, the sister, tore
the letter up in stormin' rage 'cause Nella-Rose had got the man she had
sot her feelin's on. Do you happen to call ter mind what I once told you
'bout those two gals and a little white hen?"

Truedale nodded.

"Same old actin' up!" Jim went on. "But when Greyson let out what war in
the letter--knowin' Burke like what I do--I studied it out cl'ar enough.
Nella-Rose was sure up agin blood and thunder whatever way yo' put
it--so she ran her chances with Burke. There ain't much choosin' fo'
women in the hills and Burke is an owdacious fiery feller, an' he ain't
ever set his mind to no woman but Nella-Rose."

That night Truedale went to his old cabin. He built a fire on the
hearth, drew the couch before it, and then the battle was on--the
fierce, relentless struggle. In it--Nella-Rose escaped. Like a bit of
the mist that the sun burns, so she was purified--consumed by the fire
of Truedale's remorse and shame. Not for a moment did he let the girl
bear a shadow of blame--he was done with that forever!--but he held
himself before the judgment seat of his own soul and he passed sentence
upon himself in terms that stern morality has evolved for its own
protection. But from out the wreck and ruin Truedale wrenched one sacred
truth to which he knew he must hold--or sink utterly. He could not
expect any one in God's world to understand; it must always be hidden in
his own soul, but that marriage of his and Nella-Rose's in the gray dawn
after the storm had been holy and binding to him. From now on he must
look upon the little mountain girl as a dear, dead wife--one whose
childish sweetness was part of a time when he had learned to laugh and
play, and forget the hard years that had gone to his un-making, not his
upbuilding.




CHAPTER XII


Truedale travelled back to the place of his new life bearing his books,
his unfinished play, and his secret sorrow with him. His books and
papers were the excuse for his journey; for the rest, no one suspected
nor--so thought Truedale--was any one ever to know. That part of his
life-story was done with; it had been interpreted bunglingly and
ignorantly to be sure, but the lesson, learned by failure, had sunk deep
in his heart.

He arranged his private work in the little room under the eaves. He
intended, if time were ever his again, to begin where he had left off
when broken health interrupted.

In the extension room over William Truedale's bedchamber Lynda carried
on her designing and her study; her office, uptown, was reserved for
interviews and outside business. Her home workshop had the feminine
touch that the other lacked. There were her tea table by the hearth,
work bags of dainty silk, and flowers in glass vases. The dog and the
cats were welcome in the pleasant room and sedately slept or rolled
about while the mistress worked.

But Truedale, while much in the old home, still kept his five-room
flat. He bought a good, serviceable dog that preferred a bachelor life
to any other and throve upon long evening strolls and erratic feeding.
There were plants growing in the windows--and these Conning looked after
with conscientious care.

When the first suffering and sense of abasement passed, Truedale
discovered that life in his little apartment was not only possible, but
also his salvation. All the spiritual essence left in him survived best
in those rooms. As time went by and Nella-Rose as an actuality receded,
her memory remained unembittered. Truedale never cast blame upon her,
though sometimes he tried to view her from the outsider's position. No;
always she eluded the material estimate.

"Not more than half real," so White had portrayed her, and as such she
gradually became to Truedale.

He plunged into business, as many a man had before him, to fill the gaps
in his life; and he found, as others had, that the taste of power--the
discovery that he could meet and fulfil the demands made upon
him--carried him out of the depths and eventually secured a place for
him in the world of men that he valued and strove to prove himself
worthy of. He wisely went slowly and took the advice of such men as
McPherson and his uncle's old lawyer. He grew in time to enjoy the
position of trust as his duties multiplied, and he often wondered how
he could ever have despised the common lot of his fellows. He
deliberately, and from choice, set his personal tastes aside--time
enough for his reading and writing when he had toughened his mental
muscles, he thought. Lynda deplored this, but Truedale explained:

"You see, Lyn, when I began to carve the thing out--the play, you
know--I had no idea how to handle the tools; like many fools with a
touch of talent, I thought I could manage without preparation. I've
learned better. You cannot get a thing over to people unless you know
something of life--speak the language. I'm learning, and when I feel
that I cannot _help_ writing--I'll write."

"Good!" Lynda saw his point; "and now let's haunt the theatres--see the
machinery in running order. We'll find out what people want and _why_."

So they went to the theatre and read plays. Brace made the wholesome
third and their lives settled into calm enjoyment that was charming but
which sometimes--not often, but occasionally--made Lynda pause and
consider. It would not do--for Con--to fall into a pace that might
defeat his best good.

But this thought brought a deep crimson to the girl's cheeks.

And then something happened. It was so subtle that Lynda Kendall, least
of all, realized the true significance.

Once in the early days of her secured self-support, William Truedale had
said to her:

"You give too much attention, girl, to your tailor and too little to
your dressmaker."

Lynda had laughingly called her friend frivolous and defended her
wardrobe.

"One cannot doll up for business, Uncle William."

"Is business your whole life, Lynda? If so you had better reform it. If
women are going to pattern their lives after men's they must go the
whole way. A sensible man recognizes the need of shutting the office
door sometimes and putting on his dress suit."

"Well, but Uncle William, what is the matter with this perfectly built
suit? I always slip a fresh blouse on when I am off duty. I hate to be
always changing."

"If you had a mother, Lynda, she would make you see what I mean. An old
fungus like me cannot be expected to command respect from such an
up-to-date humbug as you!"

They had laughed it off and Lynda had, once or twice, donned a house
gown to please her critical friend, but eventually had slipped back into
suits and blouses.

All of a sudden one day--it was nearing holiday time--she left her
workroom at midday and, almost shamefacedly, "went shopping." As the
fever got into her blood she became reckless, and by five o'clock had
bought and ordered home more delicate and exquisite finery than she had
ever owned in all her life before.

"It's scandalous!" she murmured to her gay, young heart, "an awful waste
of good money, but for the first time, I see how women can get
clothes-mad."

She devoted the hour and a half before dinner to locating an artistic
dressmaker and putting herself in her hands.

The result was both startling and exciting. The first gown to come home
was a dull, golden-brown velvet thing so soft and clinging and
individual that it put its wearer into quite a flutter. She "did" and
undid her hair, and, in the process, discovered that if she pulled the
"sides" loose there was a tendency to curl and the effect was distinctly
charming--with the strange gown, of course! Then, marshalling all her
courage, she trailed down to the library and thanked heaven when she
found the room empty. It would be easier to occupy the stage than to
make a late entrance when the audience was in position. So Lynda sat
down, tried to read, but was so nervous that her eyes shone and her
cheeks were rosy.

Brace and Conning came in together. "Look who's here!" was Kendall's
brotherly greeting. "Gee! Con, look at our lady friend!" He held his
sister off at arms' length and commented upon her "points."

"I didn't know your hair curled, Lyn."

"I didn't, myself, until this afternoon. You see," she trembled a bit,
"now that I do not have to go in the subway to business there's no
reason for excluding--this sort of thing" (she touched the pretty gown),
"and once you let yourself go, you do not know where you will land.
Curls go with these frills; slippers, too--look!"

Then she glanced up at Conning.

"Do you think I'm very--frivolous?" she asked.

"I never knew"--he was gazing seriously at her--"how handsome you are,
Lyn. Wear that gown morning, noon and night; it's stunning."

"I'm glad you both like it. I feel a little unusual in it--but I'll
settle down. I have been a trifle prim in dress."

Like the giant's robe, Lynda Kendall's garments seemed to transform her
and endow her with the attributes peculiar to themselves. So gradually,
that it caused no wonder, she developed the blessed gift of charm and it
coloured life for herself and others like a glow from a hidden fire.

All this did not interfere with her business. Once she donned her
working garb she was the capable Lynda of the past. A little more
sentiment, perhaps, appeared in her designs--a wider conception; but
that was natural, for happiness had come to her--and a delicious sense
of success. She, womanlike, began to rejoice in her power. She heard of
John Morrell's marriage to a young western girl, about this time, with
genuine delight. Her sky was clearing of all regrets.

"Morrell was in the office to-day," Brace told his sister one evening,
"it seemed to me a bit brash for him to lay it on so thick about his
happiness and all that sort of rot."

"Brace!"

"Well, it might be all right to another fellow, but it sounded out of
tune, somehow, to me. He says she is the kind that has flung herself
body and soul into love; I wager she's a fool."

Lynda looked serious at once.

"I hope not," she said thoughtfully, "and she'll be happier with John,
in the long run, if she has some reservations. I did not think that
once; I do now."

"But--you, Lyn? You had reservations to burn."

"I had--too many. That was where the mistake began."

"You--do not regret?"

Lynda came close to him.

"Brace, I regret nothing. I am learning that every step leads to the
next--if you don't stumble. If you do--you have to pick yourself up and
go back. If John learned from me, I, too, have learned from him. I'm
going to try to--love his wife."

"I bet she's a cross, somehow, between a cowboy and an idiot. John
protested too much about her charms. She's got a sister--sounds a bit to
me as if Morrell had married them both. She's coming to live with them
after awhile. When I fall in love, it's going to be with an orphan out
of an asylum."

Lynda laughed and gave her brother a hug. Then she said:

"Our circle is widening and, by the way Brace, I'm going to begin to
entertain a little."

"Good Lord, Lyn!"

"Oh! modestly--until I can use my stiff little wings. A dinner now and
then and a luncheon occasionally when I know enough nice women to make a
decent showing. Clothes and women, when adopted late in life, are
difficult. But oh! Brace, it is great--this blessed home life of mine!
The coming away from my beloved work to something even better."

       *       *       *       *       *

The pulse of a city throbs faster in the winter. All the vitality of
well-nourished men and women is at its fullest, while for them who fall
below the normal, the necessity of the struggle for existence keys them
to a high pitch. Not so in the deep, far mountain places. There, the
inhabitants hide from the elements and withdraw into themselves. For
weeks at a time no human being ventures forth from the shelter and
comparative comfort of the dull cabins. Families, pressed thus close and
debarred from the freedom of the open, suffer mentally and spiritually
as one from the wider haunts of men can hardly conceive.

When Nella-Rose turned away from Truedale that golden autumn day, she
faced winter and the shut-in terrors of the cold and loneliness. In two
weeks the last vestige of autumn would be past, and the girl could not
contemplate being imprisoned with Marg and her father while waiting for
love to return to her. She paused on the wet, leafy path and considered.
She had told Truedale that she would go home, but what did it matter.
She would go to Miss Lois Ann's. She would know when Truedale returned;
she could go to him. In the meantime no human being would annoy her or
question her in that cabin far back in the Hollow. And Lois Ann would
while away the long hours by story and song. It seemed to her there was
but one thing to do--and Nella-Rose did it! She fled to the woman whose
name Truedale had barely heard.

It took her three good hours to make the distance to the Hollow and it
was quite dark when she tapped on the door of the little cabin. To all
appearances the place was deserted; but after the second knock a shutter
to the right of the door was pushed open and a long, lean hand appeared
holding a lighted candle, while a deep, rich voice called:

"Who?"

"Jes' Nella-Rose!"

The hand withdrew, the shutter was closed, and in another minute the
door was flung wide and the girl drawn into the warm, comfortable room.
Supper, of a better sort than most hill-women knew, was spread out on a
clean table, and in the cheer and safety Nella-Rose expanded and decided
to take the old woman into her confidence at once and so secure present
comfort until Truedale came back to claim her.

This Lois Ann, in whose sunken eyes eternal youth burned and glowed, was
a mystery in the hills and was never questioned. Long ago she had come,
asked no favours, and settled down to fare as best she could. There was
but one sure passport to her sanctuary. That was--trouble! Once
misfortune overtook one, sex was forgotten, but at other times it was
understood that Miss Lois Ann had small liking or sympathy for men,
while on the other hand she brooded over women and children with the
everlasting strength of maternity.

It was suspected, and with good reason, that many refugees from justice
passed through Miss Lois Ann's front door and escaped by other exits.
Officers of the law had, more than once, traced their quarry to the
dreary cabin and demanded entrance for search. This was always promptly
given, but never had a culprit been found on the premises! White
understood and admired the old woman; he always halted justice, if
possible, outside her domain, but, being a hill-man, Jim had his
suspicions which he never voiced.

"So now, honey, what yo' coming to me fo' this black night?" said Lois
Ann to Nella-Rose after the evening meal was cleared away, the fire
replenished, and "with four feet on the fender" the two were content.
"Trouble?" The wonderful eyes searched the happy, young face and at the
glance, Nella-Rose knew that she was compelled to confide! There was no
choice. She felt the power closing in about her, she found it not so
easy as she had supposed, to explain. She sparred for time.

"Tell me a right, nice story, Miss Lois Ann," she pleaded, "and of
course it's no trouble that has brought me here! Trouble! Huh!"

"What then?" And now Nella-Rose sank to the hearthstone and bent her
head on the lap of the old woman. It was more possible to speak when she
could escape those seeking eyes. She closed her own and tried to call
Truedale to the dark space and to her support--but he would not come.

"So it is trouble, then?"

"No, no! it's--oh! it's the--joy, Miss Lois Ann."

"Ha! ha! And you've found out that the young scamp is back--that
Lawson?" Lois Ann, for a moment, knew relief.

"It--it isn't Burke," the words came lingeringly. "Yes, I know he's
back--is he here?" This affrightedly.

"No--but he's been. He may come again. His maw's always empty, but I
will say this for the scoundrel--he gives more than he takes, in the
long run. But if it isn't Lawson, who then? Not that snake-in-the-grass,
Jed?" Love and trouble were synonymous with Lois Ann when one was young
and pretty and a fool.

"Jed? Jed indeed!"

"Child, out with it!"

"I--I am going to tell you, Miss Lois Ann."

Then the knotted old hand fell like a withered leaf upon the soft
hair--the woman-heart was ready to bear another burden. Not a word did
the closed lips utter while the amazing tale ran on and on in the gentle
drawl. Consternation, even doubt of the girl's sanity, held part in the
old woman's keen mind, but gradually the truth of the confession
established itself, and once the fact was realized that a stranger--and
_such_ a one--had been hidden in the hills while this thing, that the
girl was telling, was going on--the strong, clear mind of the listener
interpreted the truth by the knowledge gained through a long, hard life.

"And so, you see, Miss Lois Ann, it's like he opened heaven for me; and
I want to hide here till he comes to take me up, up into heaven with
him. And no one else must know."

Lois Ann had torn the cawl from Nella-Rose's baby face--had felt, in her
superstitious heart, that the child was mysteriously destined to see
wide and far; and now, with agony that she struggled to conceal, she
knew that to her was given the task of drawing the veil from the soul of
the girl at her feet in order that she might indeed see far and wide
into the kingdom of suffering women.

For a moment the woman fenced, she would put the cup from her if she
could, like all humans who understand.

"You--are yo' lying to me?" she asked faintly, and oh, but she would
have given much to hear the girl's impish laugh of assent. Instead, she
saw Nella-Rose's eyes grow deadly serious.

"It's no lie, Miss Lois Ann; it's a right beautiful truth."

"And for days and nights you stayed alone with this man?"

The lean hand, with unrelenting strength, now gripped the drooping face
and held it firmly while the firelight played full upon it, meanwhile
the keen old eyes bored into Nella-Rose's very soul.

"But he--he is my man! You forget the--marrying on the hill, Miss Lois
Ann!"

The voice was raised a bit and the colour left the trembling lips.

"Your man!" And a bitter laugh rang out wildly.

"Stop, Miss Lois Ann! Yo' shall not look at me like that!"

The vision was dulled--Nella-Rose shivered.

"You shall not look at me like that; God would not--why should you?"

"God!"--the cracked voice spoke the word bitterly. "God! What does God
care for women? It's the men as God made things for, and us-all has to
fend them off--men and God are agin us women!"

"No, no! Let me free. I was so happy until--Oh! Miss Lois Ann, you
shall not take my happiness away."

"Yo' came to the right place, yo' po' lil' chile."

The eyes had seen all they needed to see and the hand let drop the
pretty, quivering face.

"We'll wait--oh! certainly we-all will wait a week; two weeks; then
three. An' we-all will hide close and see what we-all shall see!" A
hard, pitiful laugh echoed through the room. "And now to bed! Take the
closet back o' my chamber. No one can reach yo' there, chile. Sleep and
dream and--forget."

And that night Burke Lawson, after an hour's struggle, determined to
come forth among his kind and take his place. Nella-Rose had decided
him. He was tired of hiding, tired of playing his game. One look at the
face he had loved from its babyhood had turned the tide. Lawson had
never before been so long shut away from his guiding star. And she had
said that he might ask again when he dared--and so he came forth from
his cave-place. Once outside, he drew a deep, free breath, turned his
handsome face to the sky, and _felt_ the prayer that another might have
voiced.

He thought of Nella-Rose, remembered her love of adventure, her
splendid courage and spirit. Nothing so surely could win her as the
proposal he was about to make. To ask her to remain at Pine Cone and
settle down with him as her hill-billy would hold small temptation, but
to take her away to new and wider fields--that was another matter! And
go they would--he and she. He would get a horse somewhere, somehow. With
Nella-Rose behind him, he would never stop until a parson was reached,
and after that--why the world would be theirs from which to choose.

And it was at that point of Lawson's fervid, religious state that Jed
Martin had materialized and made it imperative that he be dealt with
summarily and definitely.

After confiding his immediate future to the subjugated Martin--having
forced him to cover at the point of a pistol--Burke, with his big,
wholesome laugh, crawled again out of the cave. Then, raising himself to
his full height, he strode over the sodden trail toward White's cabin
with the lightest, purest heart he had carried for many a day. But Fate
had an ugly trick in store for him. He was half way to White's when he
heard steps. Habit was strong. He promptly climbed a tree. The moon came
out just then and disclosed the follower. "Blake's dawg," muttered
Lawson and, as the big hound took his stand under the tree, he
understood matters. Blake was his worst enemy; he had a score to settle
about the revenue men and a term in jail for which Lawson was
responsible. While the general hunt was on, Blake had entered in,
thinking to square things, while not bringing himself into too much
prominence.

"Yo' infernal critter!" murmured Lawson, "in another minute you'll howl,
yo' po' brute. I hate ter shoot yo'--yo' being what yo' are--but here
goes."

After that White's was impossible for a time and Nella-Rose must wait.
In a day or so, probably--so Burke quickly considered--he could make a
dash back, get White to help him, and bear off his prize, but for the
moment the sooner he reached safety beyond the ridge, the better.
Shooting a dog was no light matter.

Lawson reached safety but with a broken leg; for, going down-stream, he
had met with misfortune and, during that long, hard winter, unable to
fend for himself, he was safely hidden by a timely friend and served by
a doctor who was smuggled to the scene and well paid for his help and
silence.

And in Lois Ann's cabin Nella-Rose waited, at first with serene hope,
and then, with pitiful longing. She and the old woman never referred to
the conversation of the first night but the girl was sure she was being
watched and shielded and she felt the doubt and scorn in the attitude of
Lois Ann.

"I'll--I'll send for my man," at last she desperately decided at the
end of the second week. But she dared not risk a journey to the far
station in order to send a telegram. So she watched for a chance to send
a letter that she had carefully and painfully written.

     "I'm to Miss Lois Ann's in Devil-may-come Hollow. I'm trusting and
     loving you, but Miss Lois Ann--don't believe! So please, Mister Man
     come and tell her and then go back and I will wait--most truly

     Your Nella-Rose."

then she crossed the name out and scribbled "Your doney-gal."

It was early in the third week that Bill Trim came whistling down the
trail, on a cold, bitterly cold, November morning. He bore a load of
"grateful gifts" to Lois Ann from men and women whom she had succoured
in times of need and who always remembered her, practically, when winter
"set."

Bill was a half-wit but as strong as an ox; and, once set upon a task,
managed it in a way that had given him a secure position in the
community. He carried mail into the remotest districts--when there was
any to carry. He "toted" heavy loads and gathered gossip and spilled it
liberally. He was impersonal, ignorant, and illiterate, but he did his
poor best and grovelled at the feet of any one who showed him the least
affection. He was horribly afraid of Lois Ann for no reason that he
could have given; he was afraid of her eyes--her thin, claw-like hands.
As he now delivered the bundles he had for her he accepted the food she
gave and then darted away to eat it in comfort beyond the reach of those
glances he dreaded.

And there Nella-Rose sought him and sat beside him with a choice morsel
she had saved from her finer fare.

"Trim," she whispered when he was about to start, "here is a
letter--Miss Lois Ann wants you to mail."

The bright eyes looked yearningly into the dull, hopeless face.

"I--hate the ole 'un!" confided Bill.

"But yo' don't hate me, Bill?"

"No."

"Well, then, do it for me, but don't tell a living soul that you saw me.
See, Bill, I have a whole dollar--I earned it by berry-picking. Pay for
the letter and then keep the rest. And if you ever see Marg, and she
asks about me--and whether you've seen me--tell her" (and here
Nella-Rose's white teeth gleamed in the mischievous smile), "tell her
you saw me walking in the Hollow with Burke Lawson!"

The dull fellow shook with foolish laughter. "I sho' will!" he said, and
then tucked the letter and dollar bill in the breast of his shirt. "And
now, lil' doney-gal, let me touch yo' hand," he pleaded,
"this--er--way." And like a poor frayed, battered knight he pressed his
lips to the small, brown hand of the one person who had always been kind
to him.

At sunset Bill halted to eat his supper and warm his stiffened body. He
tried to build a fire but the wood was wet and in desperation he took,
at last, the papers from inside his thin coat, they had helped to shield
him from the cold, and utilized them to start the pine cones. He rested
and feasted and later went his way. At the post office he searched among
his rags for the letter and the money. Then his face went white as
ashes:

"Gawd a'mighty!" he whimpered.

"What's wrong?" Merrivale came from behind the counter.

"I done burn my chest protector. I'll freeze without the papers." Then
Bill explained the fire building but, recalling Lois Ann, withheld any
further information.

"Here, you fool," Merrivale said not unkindly, "take all the papers you
want. And take this old coat, too. And look, lad, in yo' wandering have
yo' seen Greyson's lil' gal?"

Bill looked cunning and drawing close whispered:

"Her--and him, I seed 'im, back in the sticks! Her--and him!" Then he
laughed his foolish laugh.

"I thought as much!" Merrivale nodded, with the trouble a good man knows
at times in his eyes; but his faith in Burke coming to his aid. "You
mean--Lawson?" he asked.

Bill nodded foolishly.

"Then keep yo' mouth shut!" warned Merrivale. "If I hear yo'
gabbing--I'll flax the hide o' yo', sure as I keep store."




CHAPTER XIII


A month, then two, passed in the desolate cabin in the Hollow. Winter
clutched and held Pine Cone Settlement in a deadly grip. Old people died
and little children were born. Lois Ann, when it was physically
possible, got to the homes of suffering and eased the women, while she
berated the men for bringing poor souls to such dread passes. But always
Nella-Rose hid and shrank from sight. No need, now, to warn her. A new
and terrible look had come into her eyes, and when Lois Ann saw that
creeping terror she knew that her hour had come. To save Nella-Rose, she
believed, she must lay low every illusion and, with keen and deliberate
force, she pressed the apple of the knowledge of life between the
girlish lips. The bitter truth at last ate its way into the girl's soul
and gradually hate, such as she had never conceived, grew and consumed
her.

"She will not die," thought the old woman watching her day by day.

And Nella-Rose did not die, at least not outwardly, but in her, as in
Truedale, the fine, first glow of pure faith and passion, untouched by
the world's interpretation, faded and shrivelled forever.

The long winter hid the secret in the dreary cabin. The roads and
trails were closed; none drew near for shelter or succour.

By springtime Nella-Rose was afraid of every living creature except the
faithful soul who stood guard over her. She ran and trembled at the
least sound; she was white and hollow-eyed, but her hate was stronger
and fiercer than ever.

Early summer came--the gladdest time of the year. The heat was broken by
soft showers; the flowers bloomed riotously, and in July the world-old
miracle occurred in Lois Ann's cabin--Nella-Rose's child was born! With
its coming the past seemed blotted out; hate gave place to reverent awe
and tenderness. In the young mother the woman rose supreme and she would
not permit her mind to hold a harmful thought.

Through the hours of her travail, when Lois Ann, desperate and
frightened, had implored, threatened, and commanded that she should tell
the name of the father of her child, she only moaned and closed her lips
the firmer. But when she looked upon her baby she smiled radiantly and
whispered to the patient old creature beside her:

"Miss Lois Ann, this lil' child has no father. It is my baby and God
sent it. I shall call her Ann--cuz you've been right good to me--you
sholy have."

So it was "lil' Ann" and, since the strange reticence and misunderstood
joyousness remained, Lois Ann, at her wit's end, believing that death
or insanity threatened, went secretly to the Greyson house to confess
and get assistance.

Peter was away with Jed. The two hung together now like burrs. Whatever
of relaxation Martin could hope for lay in Greyson; whatever of material
comfort Peter could command, must come through Jed, and so they
laboured, in slow, primitive fashion, and edged in a little pleasure
together. Marg, having achieved her ambition, was content and, for the
first time in her life, easy to get along with. And into this
comparative Eden Lois Ann came with words that shattered the peace and
calm.

In Marg's private thought she had never doubted that her sister had
often been with Burke Lawson in the Hollow. When he disappeared, she
believed Nella-Rose was with him, but she had supported and embellished
her father's story concerning them because it secured her own
self-respect and covered the tracks of the degenerate pair with a shield
that they in no wise deserved, but which put their defenders in a truly
Christian attitude.

Marg was alone in the cabin when Lois Ann entered. She looked up flushed
and eager.

"How-de," she said genially. "Set and have a bite."

"I ain't got no time," the old woman returned pantingly. "Nella-Rose is
down to my place."

The warm, sunny room grew stifling to Marg.

"What a-doing?" she said, half under her breath.

"She's got a--lil' baby."

The colour faded from Marg's face, leaving it pasty and heavy.

"Burke--thar?"

"He ain't been thar all winter. I hid Nella-Rose and her shame but I
dare not any longer. I reckon she's going off."

"Dying?"

"May be; or--" and here Lois Ann tapped her head.

"And he--he went and left her?" groaned Marg--"the devil!"

Lois Ann watched the terrible anger rising in the younger woman and of a
sudden she realized how useless it would be to voice the wild tale
Nella-Rose held to. So she only nodded.

"I'll come with you," Marg decided at once, "and don't you let on to
father or Jed--they'd do some killing this time, sure!"

Together the two made their way to the Hollow and found Nella-Rose in
the quiet room with her baby nestling against her tender breast. The
look on her face might well stay the reproaches on Marg's lips--she
almost reeled back as the deep, true eyes met hers. All the smothered
sisterliness came to the surface for an instant as she trembled and drew
near to the two in the old chintz-covered rocker.

"See! my baby, Marg. She is lil' Ann."

"Ann--what?" whispered Marg.

"Just lil' Ann for--Miss Lois Ann."

"Nella-Rose" (and now Marg fell on her knees beside her sister), "tell
me where he is. Tell me and as sure as God lives I'll bring him back!
I'll make him own you and--and the baby or he'll--he'll--"

And then Nella-Rose laughed the laugh that drove Lois Ann to
distraction.

"Send Marg away, Miss Lois Ann," Nella-Rose turned to her only friend,
"she makes me so--so tired and--I do not want any one but you."

Marg got upon her feet, all the tenderness and compassion gone.

"You are--" she began, but Lois Ann was between her and Nella-Rose.

"Go!" she commanded with terrible scorn. "Go! You are not fit to touch
them. Go! Dying or mad--the girl belongs to me and not to such as has
viper blood in their veins. Go!" And Marg went with the sound of
Nella-Rose's crooning to her child ringing in her ears.

Things happened dramatically after that in the deep woods. Marg kept the
secret of the Hollow cabin in her seething heart. She was frightened,
fearing her father or Jed might discover Nella-Rose. But she was, at
times, filled with a strange longing to see her sister and touch that
wonderful thing that lay on the guilty mother-breast.

Was Nella-Rose forever to have the glory even in her shame, while she,
Marg, with all the rights of womanhood, could hold no hope of maternity?

For one reason or another Marg often stole to the woods as near the
Hollow as she dared to go. She hoped for news but none came; and it was
late August when, one sunny noon, she confronted Burke Lawson!

Lawson's face was strange and awful to look on. Marg drew away from him
in fear. She could not know but Burke had had a terrific experience that
day and he was on the path for revenge and any one in his way must
suffer. Freed at last from his captivity, he had travelled across the
range and straight to Jim White. And the sheriff, ready for the
recreant, greeted him without mercy, judging him guilty until he proved
himself otherwise.

"What you done with Nella-Rose?" he asked, standing before Burke with
slow fire in his deep eyes.

Lawson could never have been the man he was if he were not capable of
holding his own council and warding off attack.

"What makes you think I've done anything with her?" he asked.

"None o' that, Burke Lawson," Jim warned. "I've been yo' friend, but I
swear I'll toss yo' ter the dogs, as is after you, with as little
feelin' as I would if yo' were a chunk o' dead meat--if you've harmed
that lil' gal."

"Well, I ain't harmed her, Jim. And now let's set down and talk it
over. I want to--to bring her home; I want ter live a decent life 'mong
yo'-all. Jim, don't shoot 'til yo' make sure yo' ought ter shoot."

Thus brought to reason Jim sat down, shared his meal with his reinstated
friend, and gave him the gossip of the hills. Lawson ate because he was
well-nigh starved and he knew he had some rough work ahead; he listened
because he needed all the guiding possible and he shielded the name and
reputation of Nella-Rose with the splendid courage that filled his young
heart and mind. And then he set forth upon his quest with these words:

"As Gawd A'mighty hears me, Jim White, I'll fetch that lil' Nella-Rose
home and live like a man from now on. Wipe off my sins, Jim; make a
place for me, old man, and I'll never shame it--or God blast me!"

White took the strong young hand and felt his eyes grow misty.

"Yo' place is here, Burke," he said, and then Lawson was on his way.

A half hour later he encountered Marg. In his own mind Burke had a
pretty clear idea of what had occurred. Not having heard any suggestion
of Truedale, he was as ignorant of him as though Truedale had never
existed. Jed, then, was the only man to hold guilty. Jed had, in passion
and revenge, wronged Nella-Rose and had after, like the sneak and
coward he was, sought to secure his own safety by marrying Marg. But
what had they done with Nella-Rose? She had, according to White,
disappeared the night that Jed had been tied in the cave. Well, Jed must
confess and pay!--pay to the uttermost. But between him and Jed Marg now
stood!

"You!" cried Marg. "You! What yo' mean coming brazen to us-all?"

"Get out of my way!" commanded Burke, "Where's Jed?"

"What's that to you?"

"You'll find out soon enough. Let me by."

But Marg held her ground and Lawson waited. The look in his eyes awed
Marg, but his presence enraged her.

"What you-all done with Nella-Rose?" Lawson asked.

"You better find out! You've left it long enough."

"Whar is she, I say? And I tell you now, Marg--every one as has wronged
that lil' girl will answer to me. Whar is she?"

"She--she and her young-un are up to Lois Ann's. They've been hid all
winter. No one but me knows; you've time to make good--before--before
father and Jed get yo'."

Lawson took this like a blow between the eyes. He could not speak--for a
moment he could not think; then a lurid fire of conviction burned into
his very soul.

"So--that's it!" he muttered, coming so close to Marg that she shrank
back afraid. "So that's it! Yo'-all have damned and all but killed the
po' lil' girl--then flung her to--to the devil! You've taken the
leavings--you! 'cause yo' couldn't get anything else. Yo' and Jed" (here
Lawson laughed a fearless, terrifying laugh), "yo' and Jed is honourably
married, you two, and she--lil' Nella-Rose--left to--" Emotion choked
Lawson; then he plunged on: "He--he wronged her--the brute, and you took
him to--to save him and yourself you--! And she?--why, she's the only
holy thing in the hills; you couldn't damn her--you two!"

"For the love o' Gawd!" begged Marg, "keep yo' tongue still and off us!
We ain't done her any wrong; every one, even Jed, thinks she is with
you. Miss Lois Ann hid her--I only knew a week ago. I ain't told a
soul!"

A look of contempt grew upon Burke's face and hardened there. He was
thinking quick and desperately. In a vague way he realized that he had
the reins in his hands; his only concern was to know whither he should
drive. But, above and beyond all--deep true, and spiritual--were his
love and pity for Nella-Rose.

They had all betrayed and deserted her. Not for an instant did Lawson
doubt that. Their cowardice and duplicity neither surprised nor daunted
him; but his pride--his sense of superiority--bade him pause and reflect
before he plunged ahead. Finally he said:

"So you-all depend upon her safety for your safety! Take it--and be
damned! She's been with me--yo' followin' me? She's been with me,
rightful married and happy--happy! From now on I'll manage lil'
Nella-Rose's doings, and the first whisper from man or woman agin her
will be agin me--and God knows I won't be blamed for what I do then!
Tell that skunk of yours," Lawson glared at the terrified Marg, "I'm
strong enough to outbid him with the devil, but from now on him and
you--mind this well, Marg Greyson--him and you are to be our loving
brother and sister. See?"

With a wild laugh Burke took to the woods.




CHAPTER XIV

Two years and a half following William Truedale's death found things
much as the old gentleman would have liked. Often Lynda Kendall, sitting
beside the long, low, empty chair, longed to tell her old friend all
about it. Strange to say, the recluse in life had become very vital in
death. He had wrought, in his silent, lonely detachment, better even
than he knew. His charities, shorn of the degrading elements of many
similar ones, were carried on without a hitch. Dr. McPherson, under his
crust of hardness, was an idealist and almost a sentimentalist; but
above all he was a man to inspire respect and command obedience. No
hospital with which he had to deal was unmarked by his personality.
Neglect and indifference were fatal attributes for internes and nurses.

"Give the youngsters sleep enough, food and relaxation enough," he would
say to the superintendents, "but after that expect--and get--faithful,
conscientious service with as much humanity as possible thrown in."

The sanatorium for cases such as William Truedale's was already
attracting wide attention. The finest men to be obtained were on the
staff; specially trained nurses were selected; and Lynda had put her
best thought and energy into the furnishing of the small rooms and
spacious wards.

Conning, becoming used to the demands made upon him, was at last
dependable, and grew to see, in each sufferer the representative of the
uncle he had never understood; whom he had neglected and, too late, had
learned to respect. He was almost ashamed to confess how deeply
interested he was in the sanatorium. Recalling at times the loneliness
and weariness of William Truedale's days--picturing the sad night when
he had, as Lynda put it, opened the door himself, to release and
hope--Conning sought to ease the way for others and so fill the waiting
hours that less opportunity was left for melancholy thought. He
introduced amusements and pastimes in the hospital, often shared them
himself, and still attended to the other business that William
Truedale's affairs involved.

The men who had been appointed to direct and control these interests
eventually let the reins fall into the hands eager to grasp them and, in
the endless labour and sense of usefulness, Conning learned to know
content and comparative peace. He grew to look upon his present life as
a kind of belated reparation. He was not depressed; with surprising
adaptability he accepted what was inevitable and, while reserving, in
the personal sense, his past for private hours, he managed to construct
a philosophy and cheerfulness that carried him well on the tide of
events.

It was something of a shock to him one evening, nearly three years after
his visit to Pine Cone, to find himself looking at Lynda Kendall as if
he had never seen her before.

She was going out with Brace and was in evening dress. Truedale had
never seen her gowned so, and he realized that she was extremely
handsome and--something more. She came close to him, drawing on her
long, loose, white gloves.

"I cannot bear to go and leave you--all alone!" she said, raising her
eyes to his.

"You see, John Morrell is showing us his brand-new wife to-night--and I
couldn't resist; but I'll try to break away early."

"You are eager to see--Mrs. Morrell?" Truedale asked, and suddenly
recalled the relation Lynda had once held to Morrell. He had not thought
of it for many a day.

"Very. You see I hope to be great friends with her. I want--"

"What, Lynda?"

"Well, to help her understand--John."

"Let me button your glove, Lyn"--for Truedale saw her hands were
trembling though her eyes were peaceful and happy. And then as the long,
slim hand rested in his, he asked:

"And you--have never regretted, Lyn?"

"Regretted? Does a woman regret when she's saved from a mistake and
gets off scot-free as well?"

They looked at each other for a moment and then Lynda drew away her
hand.

"Thanks, Con, and please miss us a little, but not too much. What will
you do to pass the time until we return?"

"I think"--Truedale pulled himself up sharply--"I think I'll go up under
the eaves and get out--the old play!"

"Oh! how splendid! And you will--let me hear it--some day, soon?"

"Yes. Business is going easier now. I can think of it without neglecting
better things. Good-night, Lyn. Tuck your coat up close, the night's
bad."

And then, alone in the warm, bright room, Truedale had a distinct sense
of Lynda having taken something besides herself away. She had left the
room hideously lonely; it became unbearable to remain there and, like a
boy, Conning ran up to the small room next the roof.

He took the old play out--he had not unpacked it since he came from Pine
Cone! He laid it before him and presently became absorbed in reading it
from the beginning. It was after eleven when he raised his tired eyes
from the pages and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm like--all men!" he muttered. "All men--and I thought things had
gone deeper with me."

What he was recognizing was that the play and the subtle influence that
Nella-Rose had had upon him had both lost their terrific hold. He could
contemplate the past without the sickening sense of wrong and shock that
had once overpowered him. Realizing the full meaning of all that had
gone into his past experience, he found himself thinking of Lynda as she
had looked a few hours before. He resented the lesser hold the past
still had upon him--he wanted to shake it free. Not bitterly--not with
contempt--but, he argued, why should his life be shadowed always by a
mistake, cruel and unpardonable as it was, when she, that little
ignorant partner in the wrong, had gone her way and had doubtless by now
put him forever from her mind?

How small a part it had played with her, poor child. She had been
betrayed by her strange imagination and suddenly awakened passion; she
had followed blindly where he had led, but when catastrophe had
threatened one who had been part of her former life--familiar with all
that was real to her--how readily the untamed instinct had reverted to
its own!

And he--Truedale comforted himself--he had come back to _his_ own, and
his own had made its claim upon him. Why should he not have his second
chance? He wanted love--not friendship; he wanted--Lynda! All else faded
and Lynda, the new Lynda--Lynda with the hair that had learned to curl,
the girl with the pretty white shoulders and sweet, kind eyes--stood
pleadingly close in the shabby old room and demanded recognition. "She
thinks," and here Truedale covered his eyes, "that I am--as I was when I
began my life--here! What would she say--if she knew? She, God bless
her, is not like others. Faithful, pure, she could not forgive the
_truth_!"

Truedale, thinking so of Lynda Kendall, owned to his best self that
because the woman who now filled his life held to her high ideals--would
never lower them--he could honour and reverence her. If she, like him,
could change, and accept selfishly that which she would scorn in
another, she would not be the splendid creature she was. And
yet--without conceit or vanity--Truedale believed that Lynda felt for
him what he felt for her.

Never doubting that he could bring to her an unsullied past, she was,
delicately, in finest woman-fashion, laying her heart open to him. She
knew that he had little to offer and yet--and yet--she was--willing!
Truedale knew this to be true. And then he decided he must, even at this
late day, tell Lynda of the past. For her sake he dare not venture any
further concealment. Once she understood--once she recovered from her
surprise and shock--she would be his friend, he felt confident of that;
but she would be spared any deeper personal interest. It was Lynda's
magnificent steadfastness that now appealed to Truedale. With the
passing of his own season of madness, he looked upon this calm serenity
of her character with deepest admiration.

"The best any man should hope for," he admitted--turning, as he thought,
his back upon his yearning--"any man who has played the fool as I have,
is the sympathetic friendship of a good woman. What right has a man to
fall from what he knows a woman holds highest, and then look to her to
change her ideals to fit his pattern?"

Arriving at this conclusion, Truedale wrapped the tattered shreds of his
self-respect about him and accepted, as best he could, the prospect of
Lynda's adjustment to the future.

Brace and Lynda did not return in time to see Truedale that night. At
twelve, with a resigned sigh, he put away his play and went to his
lonely rooms in the tall apartment farther uptown. His dog was waiting
for him with the reproachful look in his faithful eyes that reminded
Truedale that the poor beast had not had an outing for twenty-four
hours.

"Come on, old fellow," he said, "better late than never," and the two
descended to the street. They walked sedately for an hour. The dog
longed to gambol; he was young enough to associate outdoors with
license; but being a friend as well as a dog, he felt that this was
rather a time for close comradeship, so he pattered along at his
master's heels and once in a while pushed his cold nose into the limp
hand swinging by Truedale's side. "Thank God!" Conning thought,
reaching down to pat the sleek head, "I can keep you without--confession!"

For three days and nights Truedale stayed away from the old home.
Business was his excuse--he offered it in the form of a note and a bunch
of violets. Lynda telephoned on the second day and asked him if he were
quite well. The tone of her voice made him decide to see her at once.

"May I come to dinner to-night, Lyn?" he asked.

"Sorry, Con, but I must dine with some people who have bought a hideous
house and want me to get them out of the scrape by remodelling the
inside. They're awfully rich and impossible--it's a sort of duty to the
public, you know."

"To-morrow then, Lyn?"

"Yes, indeed. Only Brace will be dining with the Morrells; by the way,
she's a dear, Con."

The next night was terrifically stormy--one of those spring storms that
sweep everything before them. The bubbles danced on the pavements, the
gutters ran floods, and fragments of umbrellas and garments floated
incongruously on the tide.

Battling against the wind, Conning made his way to Lynda's. As he drew
near the house the glow from the windows seemed to meet and touch him
with welcome.

"I'll economize somewhere," Lynda often said, "but when darkness comes
I'm always going to do my best to get the better of it."

Just for one blank moment Truedale had a sickening thought: "Suppose
that welcome was never again for him, after this night?" Then he laughed
derisively. Lynda might have her ideals, her eternal reservations, but
she also had her superb faithfulness. After she knew _all_, she would
still be his friend.

When he went into the library Lynda sat before the fire knitting a long
strip of vivid wools. Conning had never seen her so employed and it had
the effect of puzzling him; it was like seeing her--well, smoking, as
some of her friends did! Nothing wrong in it--but, inharmonious.

"What are you making, Lyn?" he asked, taking the ottoman and drawing
close to her.

"It--it isn't anything, Con. No one wants trash like this. It fulfils
its mission when it is ravelled and knitted, then unravelled. You know
what Stevenson says: 'I travel for travel's sake; the great affair is to
move.' I knit for knitting's sake; it keeps my hands busy while my--my
soul basks."

She looked up with a smile and Truedale saw that she was ill at ease. It
was the one thing that unnerved him. Had she been her old,
self-contained self he could have depended upon her to bear her part
while he eased his soul by burdening hers; but now he caught in her the
appealing tenderness that had always awakened in old William Truedale
the effort to save her from herself--from the cares others laid upon
her.

Conning, instead of plunging into his confession, looked at her in such
a protecting, yearning way that Lynda's eyes fell, and the soft colour
slowly crept in her cheeks.

In the stillness, that neither knew how to break, Truedale noticed the
gown Lynda wore. It was blue and clinging. The whiteness of her slim
arms showed through the loose sleeves; the round throat was bare and
girlish in its drooping curve.

For one mad moment Truedale tried to stifle his conscience. Why should
he not have this love and happiness that lay close to him? In what was
he different from the majority of men? Then he thought--as others before
him had thought--that, since the race must be preserved, the primal
impulses should not be denied. They outlived everything; they rallied
from shock--even death; they persisted until extinction; and here was
this sweet woman with all her gracious loveliness near him. He loved
her! Yes, strange as it seemed even then to him, Truedale acknowledged
that he loved her with the love, unlike yet like the love that had been
too rudely awakened in the lonely woods when he had been still incapable
of understanding it.

Then the storm outside reached his consciousness and awakened memories
that hurt and stung him.

No. He was not as many men who could take and take and find excuse. The
very sincerity of the past and future must prove itself, now, in this
throbbing, vital present. Only so could he justify himself and his
belief in goodness. He must open his heart and soul to the woman beside
him. There was no other alternative.

But first they dined together across the hall. Truedale noted every
special dish--the meal was composed of his favourite viands. The
intimacy of sitting opposite Lynda, the smiling pleasure of old Thomas
who served them, combined to lure him again from his stern sense of
duty.

Why? Why? his yearning pleaded. Why should he destroy his own future
happiness and that of this sweet, innocent woman for a whim--that was
what he tried to term it--of conscience? Why, there were men, thousands
of them, who would call him by a harsher name than he cared to own, if
he followed such a course; and yet--then Truedale looked across at
Lynda.

"A woman should have clear vision and choice," his reason commanded, and
to this his love agreed.

But alone with Lynda, in the library later, the conflict was renewed.
Never had she been so sweet, so kind. The storm beat against the house
and instead of interfering, seemed to hold them close and--together. It
no longer aroused in Truedale recollections that smarted. It was like an
old familiar guide leading his thought into ways sacred and happy. Then
suddenly, out of a consciousness that knew neither doubt nor fear, he
said:

"You and I, Lyn, were never afraid of truth, were we?"

"Never."

She was knitting again--knitting feverishly and desperately.

"Lyn--I want to tell you--all about it! About something you must know."

Very quietly now, Lynda rolled her work together and tossed it, needles
and all, upon the glowing logs. She was done, forever, with subterfuge
and she knew it. The wool curled, blackened, and gave forth a scorched
smell before the red coals subdued it. Then, with a straight, uplifted
look:

"I'm ready, Con."

"Just before I broke down and went away, Brace once told me that my life
had no background, no colour. Lynda, it is of that background about
which you do not know, that I want to speak." He waited a moment, then
went on:

"I went away--to the loneliest, the most beautiful place I had ever
seen. For a time there seemed to be nobody in the world but the man with
whom I lived and me. He liked and trusted me--I betrayed his trust!"

Lynda caught her breath and gave a little exclamation of dissent,
wonder.

"You--betrayed him, Con! I cannot believe that. Go on."

"Yes. I betrayed his trust. He left me and went into the deep woods to
hunt. He put everything in my care--everything. He was gone nearly three
weeks. No one knew of my existence. They are like that down there. If
you are an outsider you do not matter. I had arrived at dark; I was sent
for a certain purpose; that was all that mattered. I began and ended
with the man who was my host and who had been told to--to keep me
secret." Truedale was gripping the arms of his chair and his words came
punctuated by sharp pauses.

"And then, into that solitude, came a young girl. Remember, she did not
know of my existence. We--discovered each other like creatures in a new
world. There are no words to describe her--I cannot even attempt it,
Lynda. I ruined her life. That's all!"

The bald, crushing truth was out. For a moment the man Lynda Kendall
knew and loved seemed hiding behind this monster the confession had
called forth. A lesser woman would have shrunk in affright, but not
Lynda.

"No. That is not all," she whispered hoarsely, putting her hands out as
though pushing something tangible aside until she could reach Conning.
"I demand the rest."

"What matters it?" Truedale spoke bitterly. "If I tell how and why, can
that alter the--fact? Oh! I have had my hours of explaining and
justifying and glossing over; but I've come at last to the point where
I see myself as I am and I shall never argue the thing again."

"Con, you have shown me the man as man might see him; I must--I must
have him as a woman--as his God--must see him!"

"And you think it possible for me to grant this? You--you, Lynda, would
you have me put up a defense for what I did?"

"No. But I would have you throw all the light upon it that you can. I
want to see--for myself. I will not accept the hideous skeleton you have
hung before me. Con, I have never really known but five men in my life;
but women--women have lain heart deep along my way ever since--I learned
to know my mother! Not only for yourself, but for that girl who drifted
into your solitude, I demand light--all that you can give me!"

And now Truedale breathed hard and the muscles of his face twitched. He
was about to lay bare the inscrutable, the holy thing of his life,
fearing that even the woman near him could not be just. He had accepted
his own fate, so he thought; he meant not to whine or complain, but how
was he to live his life if Lynda failed to agree with him--where
Nella-Rose was concerned?

"Will you--can you--do what I ask, Con?"

"Yes--in a minute."

"You--loved her? She loved you--Con?" Lynda strove to smooth the way,
not so much for Truedale as for herself.

"Yes! I found her in my cabin one day when I returned from a long tramp.
She had decked herself out in my bathrobe and the old fez. Not knowing
anything about me, she was horribly frightened when I came upon her. At
first she seemed nothing but a child--she took me by storm. We met in
the woods later. I read to her, taught her, played with her--I, who had
never played in my life before. Then suddenly she became a woman! She
knew no law but her own; she was full of courage and daring and a
splendid disregard for conventions as--as we all know them. For her,
they simply did not exist. I--I was willing and eager to cast my future
hopes of happiness with hers--God knows I was sincere in that!

"Then came a night of storm--such as this. Can you imagine it in the
black forests where small streams become rivers in a moment, carrying
all before them as they plunge and roar down the mountain sides? Dangers
of all sorts threatened and, in the midst of that storm, something
occurred that involved me! I had sent Nella-Rose--that was her
name--away earlier in the day. I could not trust myself. But she came
back to warn me. It meant risking everything, for her people were abroad
that night bent on ugly business; she had to betray them in order to
save me. To have turned her adrift would have meant death, or worse.
She remained with me nearly a week--she and I alone in that cabin and
cut off from the world--she and I! There was only myself to depend
upon--and, Lynda, I failed again!"

"But, Con--you meant to--to marry her; you meant that--from the first?"
Lynda had forgotten herself, her suffering. She was struggling to save
something more precious than her love; she was holding to her faith in
Truedale.

"Good God! yes. It was the one thing I wanted--the one thing I planned.
In my madness it did not seem to matter much except as a safeguard for
her--but I had no other thought or intention. We meant to go to a
minister as soon as the storm released us. Then came the telegram about
Uncle William, and the minister was killed during the storm. Lynda, I
wanted to bring Nella-Rose to you just as she was, but she would not
come. I left my address and told her to send for me if she needed me--I
meant to return as soon as I could, anyway. I would have left anything
for her. She never sent for me--and the very day I left--she--"

"What, Con? I must know all."

"Lynda, before God I believe something drove the child to it; you must
not--you shall not judge her. But she went, the very night I left, to a
man--a man of the hills--who had loved her all his life. He was in
danger; he escaped, taking her with him!"

"I--I do _not_ believe it!" The words rang out sharply, defiantly.
Woman was in arms for woman. The loyalty that few men admit confronted
Truedale now. It seemed to glorify the darkness about him. He had no
further fear for Nella-Rose and he bowed his head before Lynda's blazing
eyes.

"God bless you!" he whispered, "but oh! Lyn, I went back to make sure. I
had the truth from her own father. And with all--she stands to this day,
in my memory, guiltless of the monstrous wrong she seemed to commit; and
so she will always stand.

"Since then, Lynda, I have lived a new piece of life; the past lies back
there and it is dead, dead. I would not have told you this but for one
great and tremendous thing. You will not understand this; no woman
could. A man could, but not a woman.

"As I once loved--in another way--that child of the hills, I love you,
the one woman of my manhood's clearer vision. Because of that love--I
had to speak."

Truedale looked up and met the eyes that searched his soul.

"I believe you," Lynda faltered. "I do not understand, but I believe
you. Go away now, Con, I want to think."

He rose at once and bent over her. "God bless you, Lyn," was all he
said.




CHAPTER XV


Two days, then three passed. Lynda tried to send for Truedale--tried to
believe that she saw clearly at last, but having decided that she was
ready she was again lost in doubt and plunged into a new struggle.

She neglected her work and grew pale and listless. Brace was worried and
bewildered. He had never seen his sister in like mood and, missing
Conning from the house, he drew, finally, his own conclusions.

One day, it was nearly a week after Truedale's call, Brace came upon his
sister in the workshop over the extension. She was sitting on the
window-ledge looking out into the old garden where a magnolia tree was
in full bloom.

"Heigho, boy!" she said, welcoming him with her eyes. "I've just
discovered that spring is here. I've always been ready for it before.
This year it has taken me by surprise."

Brace came close to her and put his hands on her shoulders.

"What's the matter, girl?" he asked in his quick, blunt way.

The tears came to Lynda's eyes, but she did not shrink.

"Brother," she said slowly, "I--I want to marry Con and--I do not
dare."

Kendall dropped in the nearest chair, and stared blankly at his sister.

"Would you mind being a bit more--well, more explicit?" he faltered.

"I'm going to ask you--some questions, dear. Will you--tell me true?"

"I'll do my best." Kendall passed his hand through his hair; it seemed
to relieve the tension.

"Brace, can a man truly love many times? Perhaps not many--but
twice--truly?"

"Yes--he can!" Brace asserted boldly. "I've been in love a dozen times
myself. I always put it to the coffee-urn test--that settles it."

"Brace, I am in earnest. Do not joke."

"Joke? Good Lord! I tell you, Lyn, I am in _deadly_ earnest--deadlier
than you know. When a man puts his love three hundred and sixty-five
times a year, in fancy, behind his coffee-urn, he gets his bearings."

"You've never grown up, Brace, and I feel as old--as old as both your
grandmothers. I do not mean--puppy-love; I mean the love that cuts deep
in a man's soul. Can it cut twice?"

"If it couldn't, it would be good-bye to the future of the race!" And
now Kendall had the world's weary knowledge in his eyes.

"A woman--cannot understand that, Lyn. She must trust if she loves."

"Yes." The universal language of men struck Lynda like a strange
tongue. Had she been living all her life, she wondered, like a
foreigner--understanding merely by signs? And now that she was
close--was confronting a situation that vitally affected her
future--must she, like other women, trust, trust?

"But what has all this to do with Con?" Kendall's voice roused Lynda
sharply.

"Why--everything," she said in her simple, frank way, "he--he is
offering me a second love, Brace."

For a moment Kendall thought his sister was resorting to sarcasm or
frivolity. But one look at her unsmiling face and shadow-touched eyes
convinced him.

"You hardly are the woman to whom dregs should be offered," he said
slowly, and then, "But Con! Good Lord!"

"Brace, now I am speaking the woman's language, perhaps you may not be
able to understand me, but I know Con is not offering me dregs--I do not
think he has any dregs in his nature; he is offering me the best, the
truest love of his life. I know it! I know it! The love that would bring
my greatest joy and his best good and--yet I am afraid!"

Kendall went over and stood close beside his sister again.

"You know that?" he asked, "and still are afraid? Why?"

The clear eyes looked up pathetically. "Because Con may not know, and I
may not be able to make him know--make him--forget!"

There was a moment's silence. Kendall was never to forget the magnolia
tree in its gorgeous, pink bloom; the droop of his strong, fine sister!
Sharply he recalled the night long ago when Truedale groaned and threw
his letters on the fire.

"Lyn, I hardly dare ask this, knowing you as I do--you are not the sort
to compromise with honour selfishly or idiotically--but, Lyn, the--the
other love, it was not--an evil thing?"

The tears sprang to Lynda's eyes and she flung her arms around her
brother's neck and holding him so whispered:

"No! no! At least I can understand that. It was the--the most beautiful
and tender tragedy. That is the trouble. It was so--wonderful, that I
fear no man can ever quite forget and take the new love without a
backward look. And oh! Brace, I must have--my own! Men cannot always
understand women when they say this. They think, when we say we want our
own lives, that it means lives running counter to theirs. This is not
so. We want, we must choose--but the best of us want the common life
that draws close to the heart of things; we want to go with our men and
along their way. Our way and theirs are the _same_ way, when love is big
enough."

"Lyn--there isn't a man on God's earth worthy of--you!"

"Brace, look at me--answer true. Am I such that a man could really want
me?"

He looked long at her. Bravely he strove to forget the blood tie that
held them. He regarded her from the viewpoint that another man might
have. Then he said:

"Yes. As God hears me, Lyn--yes!"

She dropped her head upon his shoulder and wept as if grief instead of
joy were sweeping over her. Presently she raised her tear-wet face and
said:

"I'm going to marry Con, dear, as soon as he wants me. I hate to say
this, Brace, but it is a little as if Conning had come home to me from
an honourable war--a bit mutilated. I must try to get used to him and I
will! I will!"

Kendall held her to him close. "Lyn, I never knew until this moment how
much I have to humbly thank God for. Oh! if men only could see ahead,
young fellows I mean, they would not come to a woman--mutilated. I
haven't much to offer, heaven knows, but--well, Lyn, I can offer a clear
record to some woman--some day!"

All that day Lynda thought of the future. Sitting in her workshop with
the toy-like emblems of her craft at hand she thought and thought. It
seemed to her, struggling alone, that men and women, after all, walked
through life--largely apart. They had built bridges with love and
necessity and over them they crossed to touch each other for a space,
but oh! how she longed for a common highway where she and Con could walk
always together! She wanted this so much, so much!

At five o'clock she telephoned to Truedale. She knew he generally went
to his apartment at that hour.

"I--I want to see you, Con," she said.

"Yes, Lyn. Where?"

She felt the answer meant much, so she paused.

"After dinner, Con, and come right up to--to my workshop."

"I will be there--early."

Lynda was never more her merry old self than she was at dinner; but she
was genuinely relieved when Brace told her he was going out.

"What are you going to do, Lyn?" he asked.

"Why--go up to my workshop. I've neglected things horribly, lately."

"I thought that night work was taboo?"

"I rarely work at night, Brace. And you--where are you going?"

"Up to Morrell's."

Lynda raised her eyebrows.

"Mrs. Morrell's sister has come from the West, Lyn. She's very
interesting. She's _voted_, and it hasn't hurt her."

"Why should it? And"--Lynda came around the table and paused as she was
about to go out of the room "I wonder if she could pass the coffee-urn
test, on a pinch?"

Kendall coloured vividly. "I've been thinking more of my end of the
table since I saw her than I ever have before in my life. It isn't all
coffee-urn, Lyn."

"Indeed it isn't! I must see this little womanly Lochinvar at once. Is
she pretty--pretty as Mrs. John?"

"Why--I don't know. I haven't thought. She's so different from--every
one. She's little but makes you think big. She's always saying things
you remember afterward, but she doesn't talk much. She's--she's got
light hair and blue eyes!" This triumphantly.

"And I hope she--dresses well?" This with a twinkle, for Kendall was
keen about the details of a woman's dress.

"She must, or I would have noticed." Then, upon reflection, "or perhaps
I wouldn't."

"Well, good-night, Brace, and--give Mrs. John my love. Poor dear! she
came up to ask me yesterday if I could make a small room _look_
spacious! You see, John likes to have everything cluttered--close to his
touch. She wants him to have his way and at the same time she wants to
breathe, too. Her West is in her blood."

"What are you going to do about it, Lyn?" Kendall lighted a cigar and
laughed.

"Oh, I managed to give a prairie-like suggestion of openness to her
living-room plan and I told her to make John reach for a few things. It
would do him good and save her soul alive."

"And she--what did she say to that?"

"Oh, she laughed. She has such a pretty laugh. Good-night, brother."

And then Lynda went upstairs to her quiet, dim room. It was a warmish
night, with a moon that shone through the open space in the rear. The
lot had not been built upon and the white path that had seemed to lure
old William Truedale away from life now stretched before Lynda Kendall,
leading into life. Whatever doubts and fears she had known were put
away. In her soft thin dress, standing by the open window, she was the
gladdest creature one could wish to see. And so Truedale found her. He
knew that only one reason had caused Lynda to meet him as she was now
doing. It was--surrender! Across the moon-lighted room he went to her
with opened arms, and when she came to meet him and lifted her face he
kissed her reverently.

"I wonder if you have thought?" he whispered.

"I have done nothing else in the ages since I last saw you, Con."

"And you are not--afraid? You, who should have the best the world has to
offer?"

"I am not afraid; and I--have the best--the very best."

Again Truedale kissed her.

"And when--may I come home--to stay?" he asked presently, knowing full
well that the old home must be theirs.

Lynda looked up and smiled radiantly. "I had hoped," she said, "that I
might have the honour of declining the little apartment. I'm so glad,
Con, dear, that you want to come home to stay and will not have to
be--forced here!" And at that moment Lynda had no thought of the money.
Bigger, deeper things held her.

"And--our wedding day, Lyn? Surely it may be soon."

"Let me see. Of course I'm a woman, Con, and therefore I must think of
clothes. And I would like--oh! very much--to be married in a certain
little church across the river. I found it once on a tramp. There are
vines running wild over it--pink roses. And roses come in early June,
Con."

"But, dearest, this is only--March."

"I must have--the roses, Con."

And so it was decided.

Late that night, in the stillness of the five little rooms of the big
apartment, Truedale thought of his past and his future.

How splendid Lynda had been. Not a word of all that he had told her, and
yet full well he realized how she had battled with it! She had accepted
it and him! And for such love and faith his life would be only too
short to prove his learning of his hard lesson. The man he now was
sternly confronted the man he had once been, and then Truedale renounced
the former forever--renounced him with pity, not with scorn. His only
chance of being worthy of the love that had come into his life now, was
to look upon the past as a stepping stone. Unless it could be that, it
would be a bottomless pit.




CHAPTER XVI


The roses came early that June. Truedale and Lynda went often on their
walks to the little church nestling deep among the trees in the Jersey
town. They got acquainted with the old minister and finally they set
their wedding day. They, with Brace, went over early on the morning.
Lynda was in her travelling gown for, after a luncheon, she and Truedale
were going to the New Hampshire mountains. It was such a day as revived
the reputation of June, and somehow the minister, steeped in the
conventions of his office, could not let things rest entirely in the
hands of the very eccentric young people who had won his consent to
marry them. An organist, practising, stayed on, and always Lynda was to
recall, when she thought of her wedding day, those tender notes that
rose and fell like a stream upon which the sacred words of the simple
service floated.

"The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden" was what the unseen musician played.
He seemed detached, impersonal, and only the repeated strains gave
evidence of his sympathy. An old woman had wandered into the church and
sat near the door with a rapt, wistful look on her wrinkled face. Near
the altar was a little child, a tiny girl with a bunch of wayside
flowers in her fat, moist hand.

Lynda paused and whispered something to the little maid and then, as she
went forward, Truedale noticed that the child was beside Lynda, a
shabby, wee maid of honour!

It was very quaint, very touchingly pretty, but the scene overawed the
baby and when the last words were said and Truedale had kissed his wife
they noticed that the little one was in tears. Lynda bent over her full
of tenderness.

"What is it, dear?" she whispered.

"I--I want--my mother!"

"So do I, sweetheart; so do I!"

The wet eyes were raised in wonder.

"And where is your mother, baby?"

"Up--up--the hill!"

"Why, so is mine, but you will find yours--first. Don't cry, sweetheart.
See, here is a little ring. It is too large for you now, but let your
mother keep it, and when you are big enough, wear it--and remember--me."

Dazzled by the gift, the child smiled up radiantly. "Good-bye," she
whispered, "I'll tell mother--and I won't forget."

Later that same golden day, when Kendall bade his sister and Truedale
good-bye at the station he had the look on his face that he used to have
when, as a child, he was wont to wonder why he had to be brave because
he was a boy.

It made Lynda laugh, even while a lump came in her throat. Then, as in
the old days, she sought to recompense him, without relenting as to the
code.

"Of course you'll miss us, dear old fellow, but we'll soon be back
and"--she put her lips to his ear and whispered--"there's the little
sister of the Morrells; play with her until we come home."

There are times in life that stand forth as if specially designed, and
cause one to wonder, if after all, a personal God isn't directing
affairs for the individual. They surely could not have just happened,
those weeks in the mountains. So warm and still and cloudless they were
for early June. And then there was a moon for a little while--a calm,
wonderful moon that sent its fair light through the tall trees like a
benediction. After that there were stars--millions of them--each in its
place surrounded by that blue-blackness that is luminous and unearthly.
Securing a guide, Truedale and Lynda sought their own way and slept, at
night, in wayside shelters by their own campfires. They had no definite
destination; they simply wandered like pilgrims, taking the day's dole
with joyous hearts and going to their sleep at night with healthy
weariness.

Only once during those weeks did they speak of that past of Truedale's
that Lynda had accepted in silence.

"My wife," Truedale said--she was sitting beside him by the outdoor
fire--"I want you always to remember that I am more grateful than words
can express for your--bigness, your wonderful understanding. I did not
expect that even you, Lyn, could be--so!"

She trembled a little--he remembered that afterward--he felt her against
his shoulder.

"I think--I know," she whispered, "that women consider the _effect_ of
such--things, Con. Had the experience been low, it would have left its
mark; as it is I am sure--well, it has not darkened your vision."

"No, Lyn, no!"

"And lately, I have been thinking of her, Con--that little Nella-Rose."

"You--have? You _could_, Lyn?"

"Yes. At first I couldn't possibly comprehend--I do not now, really, but
I find myself believing, in spite of my inability to understand, that
the experience has cast such a light upon her way, poor child, that--off
in some rude mountain home--she has a little fairer space than some.
Con, knowing you, I believe you could not have--lowered her. She went
back to her natural love--it must have been a strong call--but I shall
never believe her depraved."

"Lyn," Truedale's voice was husky, "once you made me reconciled to my
uncle's death--it was the way you put it--and now you have made me dare
to be--happy."

"Men never grow up!" Lynda pressed her face to his shoulder, "they make
a bluff at caring for us and defending us and all the rest--but we
understand, we understand! I think women mother men always even when
they rely upon them most, as I do upon you! It's so splendid to think,
when we go home, of the great things we are going to do--together."

A letter from Brace, eventually, made them turn their faces homeward. It
was late July then.

     LYN, DEAR:

     When you can conveniently give me a thought, do. And when are you
     coming back? I hope I shall not shock you unduly--but it's that
     little sister of the Morrells that is the matter, Elizabeth
     Arnold--Betty we call her. I've got to marry her as soon as I can.
     I'll never be able to do any serious business again until I get her
     behind the coffee-urn. She haunts me day and night and then when I
     see her--she laughs at me! We've been over to look at that church
     where you and Con were married. Betty likes it, but prefers her own
     folk to stray old women and lost kids. We think September would be
     a jolly month to be married in, but Betty refuses to set a day
     until she finds out if she approves of my people! That's the way
     _she_ puts it. She says she wants to find out if you believe in
     women's voting, for if you don't, she knows she never could get on
     with you. She believes that the thing that makes women opposed,
     does other things to them--rather unpleasant, unfriendly things.

     I told her your sentiments and then she asked about Con. She says
     she wouldn't trust the freest woman in the East if she were married
     to a slave-believing man.

     By all this you will judge what a comical little cuss Betty is,
     but all the same I am quite serious in urging you to come home
     before I grow desperate.

     BRACE.

Truedale looked at Lynda in blank amazement. "I'd forgotten about the
sister," he said, inanely.

"I think, dear, we'll _have_ to go home. I remember once when we were
quite little, Brace and I, mother had taken me for a visit and left him
at home. He sent a letter to mother--it was in printing--'You better
come back,' he said; 'You better come in three days or I'll do
something.' We got there on the fourth day and we found that he had
broken the rocking chair in which mother used to put him to sleep when
he was good!"

"The little rowdy!" Truedale laughed. "I hope he got a walloping."

"No. Mother cried a little, had the chair mended, and always said she
was sorry that she had not got home on the third day."

"I see. Well, Lyn, let's go home to him. I don't know what he might
break, but perhaps we couldn't mend it, so we'll take no chances."

Truedale and Lynda had walked rather giddily upon the heights; the
splendour of stars and the warm touch of the sun had been very near
them; but once they descended to the paths of plain duty they were not
surprised to find that they lay along a pleasant valley and were warmed
by the brightness of the hills.

"It's--home, now!" whispered Truedale as he let himself and Lynda in at
the front door, "I wish Uncle William were here to welcome us. How he
loved you, Lyn."

Like a flood of joy memory overcame Lynda. This was how William Truedale
had loved her--this luxury of home--and then she looked at Truedale and
almost told him of the money, the complete assurance of the old man's
love and trust. But of a sudden it became impossible, though why, Lynda
could not have said. She shrank from what she had once believed would be
her crowning joy; she decided to leave the matter entirely with Dr.
McPherson.

After all, she concluded, it should be Con's right to bring to her this
last touching proof of his uncle's love and desire. How proud he would
be! How they would laugh over it all when they both knew the secret!

So the subject was not referred to and a day or so later Betty Arnold
entered their lives, and so intense was their interest in her and her
affairs that personal matters were, for the moment, overlooked.

Lynda went first to call upon Betty alone. If she were to be
disappointed, she wanted time to readjust herself before she encountered
other eyes. Betty Arnold, too, was alone in her sister's drawing room
when Lynda was announced. The two girls looked long and searchingly at
each other, then Lynda put her hands out impulsively:

"It's really too good to be true!" was all she could manage as she
looked at the fair, slight girl and cast doubt off forever.

"Isn't it?" echoed Betty. "Whew! but this is the sort of thing that ages
one."

"Would it have mattered, Betty, whether I was pleased or not?"

"Lynda, it would--awfully! You see, all my life I've been independent
until I met Brace and now I want everything that belongs to him. His
love and mine collided but it didn't shock us to blindness, it awakened
us--body and soul. When that happens, everything matters--everything
that belongs to him and me. I knew you liked Mollie, and John is an old
friend; they're all I've got, and so you see if you and I hadn't--liked
each other, it would have been--tragic. Now let's sit down and have tea.
Isn't it great that we won't have to choke over it?"

Betty presided at the small table so daintily and graciously that her
occasional lapses into slang were like the dartings of a particularly
frisky little animal from the beaten track of conventions. She and Lynda
grew confidential in a half hour and felt as if they had known each
other for years at the close of the call. Just as Lynda was reluctantly
leaving, Mrs. Morrell came in. She was darker, more dignified than her
sister, but like her in voice and laugh.

"Mollie, I wish I had told you to stay another hour," Betty exclaimed,
going to her sister and kissing her. "And oh! Mollie, Lynda likes me!
I'll confess to you both now that I have lain awake nights dreading this
ordeal."

When Lynda met Brace that evening she was amused at his drawn face and
tense voice.

"How did you like her?" he asked feebly and at that moment Lynda
realized how futile a subterfuge would have been.

"Brace, I love her!"

"Thank God!"

"Why, Brace!"

"I mean it. It would have gone hard with me if you hadn't."

To Truedale, Betty presented another aspect.

"You can trust women with your emotions about men," she confided to
Lynda, "but not men! I wouldn't let Brace know for anything how my love
for him hobbles me; and if your Con--by the way, he's a great deal nicer
than I expected--should guess my abject state, he'd go to Brace and--put
him wise! That's why men have got where they are to-day--standing
together. And then Brace might begin at once to bully me. You see,
Lynda, when a husband gets the upper hand it's often because he's
reinforced by all the knowledge his male friends hand out to him."

Truedale met Betty first at the dinner--the little family dinner Lynda
gave for her. Morrell and his wife. Brace and Betty, himself and Lynda.

In a trailing blue gown Betty looked quite stately and she carried her
blond head high. She sparkled away through dinner and proved her happy
faculty of fitting in, perfectly. It was a very merry meal, and later,
by the library fire, Conning found himself tete-a-tete with his future
sister-in-law. She amused him hugely.

"I declare," he said teasingly, "I can hardly believe that you believe
in the equality of the sexes." They were attacking that problem at the
moment.

"I--don't!" Betty looked quaintly demure. "I believe in the superiority
of men!"

"Good Lord!"

"I do. That's why I want all women to have the same chance that men have
had to get superior. I--I want my sisters to get there, too!"

"There? Just where?" Truedale began to think the girl frivolous; but her
charm held.


"Why, where their qualifications best fit them to be. I'm going to tell
you a secret--I'm tremendously religious! I believe God knows, better
than men, about women; I want--well, I don't want to seem flippant--but
truly I'd like to hear God speak for himself!"

Truedale smiled. "That's a common-sense argument, anyway," he said. "But
I suppose we men are afraid to trust any one else; we don't want
to--lose you."

"As if you could!" Betty held her small, white hand out to the dog
lying at her feet. "As if we didn't know, that whatever we don't want,
we do want you. Why, you are our--job."

Truedale threw his head back and laughed. "You're like a whiff of your
big mountain air," he said.

"I hope I always will be," Betty replied softly and earnestly, "I must
keep--free, no matter what happens. I must keep what I am, or how can I
expect to keep--Brace? He loved _this_ me. Marriage doesn't perform a
miracle, does it--Conning? please let me call you that. Lynda has told
me how she and you believe in two lives, not one narrow little life.
It's splendid. And now I am going to tell you another secret. I'll have
to let Lynda in on this, too, she must help me. I have a little money of
my very own--I earned every cent of it. I am going to buy a tiny bit of
ground, I've picked it out--it's across the river in the woods. I'm
going to build a house, not much of a one, a very small one, and I'm
going to call it--The Refuge. When I cannot find myself, when I get
lost, after I'm married, and am trying to be everything to Brace, I'm
going to run away to--The Refuge!" The blue eyes were shining "And
nobody can come there, not even Brace, except by invitation. I
think"--very softly--"I think all women should have a--a Refuge."

Truedale found himself impressed. "You're a very wise little woman," he
said.

"One has to be, sometimes," came the slow words. And at that moment all
doubt of Betty's serious-mindedness departed.

Brace joined them presently. He looked as if he had been straining at a
leash since dinner time.

"Con," he said, laying his hand on the light head bending over the dog,
"now that you have talked and laughed with Betty, what have you got to
say?"

"Congratulations, Ken, with all my heart."

"And now, Betty"--there was a new tone in Kendall's voice--"Mollie has
said you may walk back with me. The taxi would stifle us. There's a
moon, dear, and a star or two--"

"As if that mattered!" Betty broke in. "I'm very, very happy. Brace,
you've got a nice, sensible family. They agree with me in everything."

The weeks passed rapidly. Betty's affairs absorbed them all, though she
laughingly urged them to leave her alone.

"It's quite awful enough to feel yourself being carried along by a
deluge," she jokingly said, "without hearing the cheers from the banks."

But Mollie Morrell flung herself heart and soul into the arranging of
the wardrobe--playing big sister for the first and only time in her
life. She was older than Betty, but the younger girl had always swayed
the elder.

And Lynda became fascinated with the little bungalow across the river,
known as The Refuge.

The original fancy touched her imagination and she put other work aside
while she vied with Betty for expression.

"I've found an old man and woman, near by," Betty said one day, "they
were afraid they would have to go to the poor-house, although both are
able to do a little. I'm going to put them in my bungalow--the two
little upstair rooms shall be theirs. When I run down to find myself it
will be homey to see the two shining, old faces there to greet me. They
are not a bit cringing; I think they know how much they will mean to me.
They consider me rather immoral, I know, but that doesn't matter."

And then in early October Brace and Betty were married in the church
across the river. Red and gold autumn leaves were falling where earlier
the roses had clambered; it was a brisk, cool day full of sun and shade
and the wedding was more to the old clergyman's taste. The organist was
in his place, his music discriminately chosen, there were guests and
flowers and discreet costumes.

"More as it should be," thought the serene pastor; but Lynda missed the
kindly old woman who had drifted in on her wedding day, and the small,
tearful girl who had wanted her mother.




CHAPTER XVII


There are spaces in all lives that seem so surrounded by safety and
established conditions that one cannot conceive of change. Those
particular spots may know light and shade of passing events but it seems
that they cannot, of themselves, be affected. So Truedale and Lynda had
considered their lives at that period. They were supremely happy, they
were gloriously busy--and that meant that they both recognized
limitations. They took each day as it came and let it go at the end with
a half-conscious knowledge that it had been too short.

Then one late October afternoon Truedale tapped on the door of Lynda's
workshop and to her cheery "come," entered, closed the door after him,
and sat down. He was very white and sternly serious. Lynda looked at him
questioningly but did not speak.

"I've seen Dr. McPherson," Conning said presently, "he sent for me. He's
been away, you know."

"I had not known--but--" Then Lynda remembered!

"Lynda, did you know--of my uncle's--will before his death?"

"Why, yes, Con."

Something cold and death-like clutched Lynda's heart. It was as if an
icy wave had swept warmth and safety before it, leaving her aghast and
afraid.

"Yes, I knew."

"Will you tell me--I could not go into this with McPherson, somehow; he
didn't see it my way, naturally--will you tell me what would have become
of the--the fortune had I not married you?"

The deathly whiteness of Lynda's face did not stay Truedale's hard
words; he was not thinking of her--even of himself; he was thinking of
the irony of fate in the broad sense.

"The money would have--come to me." Then, as if to divert any further
misunderstanding. "And when I refused it--it would have reverted to
charities."

"I see. And you did this for me, Lyn! How little even you understood.
Now that I have the cursed money I do not know what to do with it--how
to get rid of it. Still it was like you, Lynda, to sacrifice yourself in
order that I might have what you thought was my due. You always did
that, from girlhood. I might have known no other woman could have done
what you have done, no such woman as you, Lyn, without a mighty motive;
but you did not know me, really!"

And now, looking at Lynda, it was like looking at a dead face--a face
from which warmth and light had been stricken.

"I--do not know what you--mean, Con," she said, vaguely.

"Being you, Lyn, you couldn't have taken the money, yourself,
particularly if you had declined to marry me. A lesser woman would have
done it without a qualm, feeling justified in outwitting so cruel a
thing as the bequest; but not you! You saw no other way, so you--you
with your high ideals and clear beliefs--you married the man I am--in
order to--to give me--my own. Oh, Lyn, what a sacrifice!"

"Stop!" Lynda rose from her chair and, by a wide gesture, swept the
marks of her trade far from her. In so doing she seemed to make space to
breathe and think.

"Do you think I am the sort of girl who would sell herself for
anything--even for the justice I might think was yours?"

"Sell yourself? Thank God, between us, Lynda, that does not enter in."

"It would have, were I the woman your words imply. I had nothing to gain
by marrying you, nothing! Nothing--that is--but--but--what you are
unable to see." And then, so suddenly that Truedale could not stop her,
Lynda almost ran from the room.

For an hour Truedale sat in her empty shop and waited. He dared not seek
her and he realized, at last, that she was not coming back to him. His
frame of mind was so abject and personal that he could not get Lynda's
point of view. He could not, as yet, see the insult he had offered,
because he had set her so high and himself so low. He saw her only as
the girl and woman who, her life through, had put herself aside and
considered others. He saw himself in the light such a woman as he
believed Lynda to be would regard him. He might have known, he bitterly
acknowledged, that Lynda could not have overlooked in her pure woman
soul the lapse of his earlier life. He remembered how, that night of his
confession, she had begged to be alone--to think! Later, her
silence--oh! he understood it now. It was her only safeguard. And that
once, in the woods, when he had blindly believed in his great joy--how
she had solemnly made the best of the experience that was too deep in
both hearts to be resurrected. What a fool he had been to dream that so
wrong a step as he had once taken could lead him to perfect peace.
Thinking these thoughts, how could he, as yet, comprehend the wrong he
was doing Lynda? Why, he was grieving over her, almost breaking his
heart in his desire to do something--anything--to free her from the
results of her useless sacrifice.

At six o'clock Truedale went downstairs, but the house was empty. Lynda
had gone, taking all sense of home with her. He did not wait to see what
the dinner hour might bring about; he could not trust himself just
then. Indeed--having blasted every familiar landmark--he was utterly and
hopelessly lost. He couldn't imagine how he was ever to find his way
back to Lynda, and yet they would have to meet--have to consider.

Lynda, after leaving her workshop, had only one desire--she wanted Betty
more than she wanted anything else. She put on her hat and coat and
started headlong for her brother's apartment farther uptown. She felt
she must get there before Brace arrived and lay her trouble before the
astoundingly clear, unfaltering mind and heart of the little woman who,
so short a time ago, had come into their lives. But after a few blocks,
Lynda's steps halted. If this were just her own trouble--but what
trouble is just one's own?--she need not hesitate; but how could she
reveal what was deepest and most unfailing in her soul to any living
person--even to Betty of the unhesitating vision?

Presently Lynda retraced her steps. The calm autumn night soothed and
protected her. She looked up at the stars and thought of the old words:
"Why so hot, little man, why so hot?" Why, indeed? And then in the still
dimness--for she had turned into the side streets--she let Truedale come
into her thoughts to the exclusion, for the moment, of her own bitter
wrong. She looked back at his strange, lonely boyhood with so little in
it that could cause him to view justly his uncle's last deed. She
remembered his pride and struggle--his reserve and almost abnormal
sensitiveness. Then--the experience in the mountain! How terribly deep
that had sunk into Truedale's life; how unable he had been to see in it
any wrong but his own. Lynda had always honoured him for that. It had
made it possible for her to trust him absolutely. She had respected his
fine position and had never blurred it by showing him how she, as a
woman, could see the erring on the woman's part. No, she had left
Nella-Rose to him as his high-minded chivalry had preserved her--she had
dared do all that because she felt so secure in the love and sincerity
of the present.

"And now--what?"

The bitterness was past. The shock had left her a bit weak and helpless
but she no longer thought of the human need of Betty. She went home and
sat down before the fire in the library and waited for light. At ten
o'clock she came to a conclusion. Truedale must decide this thing for
himself! It was, after all, his great opportunity. She could not, with
honour and self-respect, throw herself upon him and so complicate the
misunderstanding. If her life with him since June had not convinced him
of her simple love and faith--her words, now, could not. He must seek
her--must realize everything. And in this decision Lynda left herself so
stranded and desolate that she looked up with wet eyes and saw--William
Truedale's empty chair! A great longing for her old friend rose in her
breast--a longing that not even death had taken from her. The clock
struck the half-hour and Lynda got up and with no faltering went toward
the bedroom door behind which the old man had started forth on his
journey to find peace.

And just as she went, with blinded eyes and aching heart, to shut
herself away from the dreariness of the present, Truedale entered the
house and, from the hall, watched her. He believed that she had heard
him enter, he hoped she was going to turn toward him--but no! she went
straight to the never-used room, shut the door, and--locked it!

Truedale stood rooted to the spot. What he had hoped--what trusted--he
could hardly have told. But manlike he was the true conservative and
with the turning of that key his traditions and established position
crumbled around him.

Lynda and he were married and, unless they decided upon an open break,
they must live their lives. But the turning of the key seemed to
proclaim to the whole city a new dispensation. A declaration of
independence that spurned--tradition.

For a moment Truedale was angry, unsettled, and outraged. He strode into
the room with stern eyes; he walked half way to the closed--and
locked--door; he gazed upon it as if it were a tangible foe which he
might overcome and, by so doing, reestablish the old ideals. Then--and
it was the saving grace--Truedale smiled grimly. "To be sure," he
muttered. "Of course!" and turned to his room under the eaves.

But the following day had to be faced. There were several things that
had to be dealt with besides the condition arising from the locking of
the door of William Truedale's room.

Conning battled with this fact nearly all night, little realizing that
Lynda was feeling her way to the same conclusion in the quiet room
below.

"I'm not beaten, Uncle William," she whispered, kneeling beside the bed.
"If I could only see how to meet to-morrow I would be all right."

And then a queer sort of comfort came to her. The humour with which her
old friend would have viewed the situation pervaded the room, bringing
strength with it.

"I know," she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemed
present, in a marvellously real way, "I know I love Conning. A
make-believe love couldn't stand this--but the true thing can. And he
loves _me!_ I know it through and through. The other love of his
wasn't--what this is. But he must find this out for himself. I've always
been close when he needed me; he must come to me now--for his sake even
more than for mine. I am deserving of that, am I not, Uncle William?"

The understanding friendship did not fail the girl kneeling by the empty
bed. It seemed to come through the rays of moonlight and rest like a
helpful touch upon her.

"Little mother!"--and in her soul Lynda believed William Truedale and
her mother had come together--"little mother, you did your best without
love; I will do mine--with it! And now I am going to bed and I am going
to sleep."

The next morning Truedale and Lynda were both so precipitate about
attacking the situation that they nearly ran into each other at the
dining-room door. They both had the grace to laugh. Then they talked of
the work at hand for the morning.

"I have a studio to evolve," Lynda said, passing a slice of toast to
Truedale from the electric contrivance before her, "a woman wants a
studio, she feels it will be an inspiration. She's a nice little society
woman who is bored to death. She's written an article or two for a
fashion paper and she believes she has discovered herself. I wish I knew
what to put in the place. She'd scorn the real thing and I hate to
compromise when it comes to such things. And you, Con, what have you
that must be done?"

Truedale looked at her earnestly. "I must meet the lawyer and
McPherson," he said, "but may I come--for a talk, Lyn, afterward?"

"I shall be in my workshop all day, Con, until dinner time to-night."

The day was a hard one for them both, but womanlike Lynda accepted it
and came to its close with less show of wear and tear than did
Truedale. She was restless and nervous. She worked conscientiously until
three and accomplished something in the difficult task the society woman
had entrusted her with; then she went to her bedroom and, removing every
sign of her craft, donned a pretty house dress and went back to her
shop. She meant to give Truedale every legitimate assistance, but she
was never prouder or firmer in her life. She called the dogs and the
cats in; she set the small tea table by the hearth and lighted just fire
enough to take the chill from the room and yet leave it sweet and fresh.

At five there was a tap on the door.

"Just in time, Con, for the tea," she called and welcomed him in.

To find her so calm, cheerful, and lovely, was something of a shock to
Truedale. Had she been in tears, or, had she shown any trace of the
suffering he had endured, he would have taken her in his arms and
relegated the unfortunate money to the scrap-heap of non-essentials. But
the scene upon which he entered had the effect of chilling him and
bringing back the displeasing thought of Lynda's sacrifice.

"Have you had a hard day, Con?"

"Yes."

"Drink the tea, and--let me see, you like bread and butter, don't you,
instead of cakes?"

They were silent for a moment while they sipped the hot tea. Then,
raising their eyes, they looked suddenly at each other.

"Lyn, I cannot do without you!"

She coloured deeply. She knew he did not mean to be selfish--but he was.

"You would be willing even to--accept my sacrifice?" she asked so softly
that he did not note the yearning in the tones--the beseeching of him to
abdicate the position that, for her, was untenable.

"Anything--anything, Lynda. The day without you has been--hell. We'll
get rid of the money somehow. Now that we both know how little it means,
we'll begin again and--free from Uncle William's wrong conceptions--Lyn--"
He put his cup down and rose quickly.

"Wait!" she whispered, shrinking back into her low armchair and holding
him off by her smile of detachment more than by her word of command.

"I--I cannot face life without you," Truedale spoke hoarsely, "I never
really had to contemplate it before. I need you--must have you."

He came a step nearer, but Lynda shook her head.

"Something has happened to us, Con. Something rather tremendous. We must
not bungle."

"One thing looms high. Only one, Lyn."

"Many things do, Con. They have been crowding thick around me all day.
There are worse things than losing each other!"

"No!" Truedale denied, vehemently.

"Yes. We could lose ourselves! This thing that makes you fling aside
what went before, this thing that makes me long--oh! how I long, Con--to
come to you and forget, this thing--what is it? It is the holiest thing
we know, and unless we guard it sacredly we shall hurt and kill it and
then, by and by, Con, we shall look at each other with frightened
eyes--over a dead, dead love."

"Lynda, how--can you? How dare you say these things when you
confess--Oh! my--wife!"

"Because"--and she seemed withdrawing from Truedale as he
advanced--"because I have confessed! You and I, Con, have reached
to-day, by different routes, the most important and vital problem. All
my life I have been pushing doors open as I came along. Sometimes I have
only peered in and hurried on; sometimes I have stayed and learned a
lesson. It will always be so with me. I must know. I think you are
willing not to know unless you are forced."

Truedale winced and went back slowly to his chair.

"Con, dear, unless you wish it otherwise, I want, as far as possible, to
begin from to-day and find out just how much we do mean to each other.
Let us push open the doors ahead until we make sure we both want the
same abiding place. Should you find a spot better, safer for you than
this that we thought we knew, I will never hold you by a look or word,
dear."

"And you--Lyn?" Truedale's voice shook.

"For myself I ask the same privilege."

"You mean that we--live together, yet apart?"

"Unless you will it otherwise, dear. In that case, we will close this
door and say--good-bye, now."

Her strength, her tenderness, unmanned Truedale. Again he felt that call
upon him which she had inspired the night of his confession. Again he
rallied to defend her--from her own pitiless sense of honour.

"By heaven!" he cried. "It shall not be good-bye. I will accept your
terms, live up to them, and dare the future."

"Good, old Con! And now, please, dear, go. I think--I think I am going
to cry--a little and"--she looked up quiveringly--"I mustn't have red
eyes at dinner time. Brace and Betty are coming. Thank heaven, Con,
Betty will make us laugh."




CHAPTER XVIII


Having agreed upon this period of probation both Lynda and Truedale
entered upon it with characteristic determination. There were times when
Conning dejectedly believed that no woman could act as Lynda was doing,
if she loved a man. No, it was not in woman's power to forego all Lynda
was foregoing if she loved deeply. Not that Lynda could be said to be
cold or indifferent; she had never been sweeter, truer; but she was so
amazingly serene!

Perhaps she was content, having secured his rights for him, to go on and
be thankful that so little was actually exacted from her.

But such reasoning eventually shamed Truedale, and he acknowledged that
there was something superb in a woman who, while still loving a man, was
able to withhold herself from him until both he and she had sounded the
depths of their natures.

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.

It is one thing for two proud, sensitive natures to enter upon a
deliberate course, and quite another for them to abandon it when the
supposed need is past. There was now no doubt in Truedale's heart
concerning Lynda's motive for marrying him; nor did Lynda for one moment
question Truedale's deep affection for her. Yet they waited--quite
subconsciously at first, then with tragic stubbornness--for something to
sweep obstacles aside without either surrendering his position.

"He must want me so that nothing can sway him again," thought Lynda.

"She must know that my love for her can endure anything--even this!"
argued Conning, and his stand was better taken than hers as she was to
find out one day.

It seemed enough, in the beginning, to live their lives close and
confidentially--to feel the tie of dependence that held them; but the
knot cut in deep at times and they suffered in foolish but proud
silence.

Many things occurred during those years that widened the horizon for
them all. Betty's first child came and went, almost taking the life of
the young mother with it. Before the possible calamity Brace stood
appalled, and both Conning and Lynda realized how true a note the girl
was in their lives. She seemed to belong to them in a sense stronger
than blood could have made her. They could not imagine life without her
sunny companionship. Never were they to forget the grim dreariness of
the once cheerful apartment during those days and nights when Death
hovered near, weighing the chances. But Betty recovered and came back
with a yearning look in her eyes that had never been there before.

"You see," she confided to Lynda, "there will always be moments when I
must listen to hear if my baby is calling. At times, Lyn, it seems as if
he were just on ahead--keeping me from forgetting. It doesn't make me
sad, dear, it's really beautiful that he didn't quite escape me."

"And do you go to The Refuge to think and look and listen?" Lynda asked.
For they all worried now when Betty betook herself to the little house.

"Not much!" And here Betty twinkled. "I go there to meet Betty Arnold
face to face, and ask her if she would rather trade back. And then I
come trotting home, almost out of breath, to precious old Brace; I'm so
afraid he won't know he's still the one big thing in the world for me."

This little child of Betty's and Brace's had made a deep impression upon
them all. It had lived only three days and while it stayed the black
shadow hanging over the mother had made the baby seem of less account;
but later, they all recalled the pretty, soft mite with the strange,
old look in its wide eyes. He had been beautiful as babies who are not
going to stay often are. There were to be no years for him to change and
grow and so loveliness came with him.

"I reckon the little chap thought we didn't want him," Brace choked as
he spoke over the small, cold body of his first-born, "so he turned back
home before he forgot the way."

"Don't, brother!" Lynda pleaded as she stood with Truedale beside him.
"You know the way home might have been longer and harder, by and by."

"I wish Betty and I might have helped to make it easier; for a time,
anyway." The eternal revolt against seemingly useless suffering rang in
the words.

And that night Truedale had kissed Lynda lingeringly.

"Such things," he said, referring to the day's sad duties, "such things
do drag people together."

After that something new throbbed in their lives--something that had not
held sway before. If Betty looked and listened for the little creature
who had gone on ahead, Lynda listened and looked into what had been a
void in her life before.

She had always loved children in a kindly, detached way, but she had
never appropriated them. But now she could not forget the feeling of
that small, downy head that for a day or so nestled on her breast while
the young mother's feet all but slipped over the brink. She remembered
the strange look in the child's deep eyes the night it died. The
lonely, aged look that, in passing, seemed trying to fix one familiar
object. And when the dim light went out in the little face and only a
dead baby lay in her arms, maternity had been called forth from its
slumber and in following Betty's child, became vitalized and definite.

"I--I think I shall adopt a child." So she had thought while the cold
little head yet lay in the hollow of her arm. She never let go this
thought and only hesitated before voicing it to Truedale because she
feared he could not understand and might cruelly misunderstand. Life was
hard enough and difficult enough for them both just then, and often,
coming into the quiet home at the day's end, Lynda would say, to cheer
her faint heart:

"Oh, well, it's really like coming to a hearth upon which the fire is
not yet kindled. But, thank heaven! it is a clean hearth, not cluttered
with ashes--it is ready for the fire."

But was it? More and more as the time went on and Truedale kept his
faith and walked his way near hers--oh! they were thankful for that--but
still apart, Lynda wondered. It was all so futile, so utterly selfish
and childish--yet neither spoke. Then suddenly came the big thing that
drove them together and swept aside all the barrier of rubbish they had
erected. Like many great and portentous things it seemed very like the
still, small voice in the burning bush--the tiny star in the black
night.

Truedale had had an enlightening conversation with McPherson in the
afternoon. The old doctor was really a soft-hearted sentimentalist and
occasionally he laid himself bare to the eye of some trustworthy friend.
This time it was Truedale.

Up and down the plain, businesslike office McPherson was tramping when
Conning was announced.

"Oh! come in, come in!" called McPherson. "You can better understand
this than some. I've had a devil of a day. One confounded thing after
another to take the soul out of me. And now this letter from old Jim
White!"

Conning started. It had now been years since Pine Cone had touched his
thought sharply.

"What's the matter with White?" he asked.

"Look out of the window!"

Truedale did so, and into the wall-like snow which had been falling all
day.

"They've been having that in the mountains for weeks. Trails blotted
out, folk hiding like beasts, and that good old chap, White, took this
time to break his leg. There he lay for a whole week, damn it all! Two
of his dogs died--he, himself, almost starved. Managed to crawl to the
food while there was any, and then some one ploughed through to get Jim
to organize a hanging or some other trifling thing, and found him! Good
Lord, Truedale, what they need down there is roads! roads! Roads over
which folk can travel to one another and become human. That's all the
world needs anyway!" Here McPherson stopped in front of Truedale and
glared as if about to put the blame of impeded traffic up to him. "Roads
over which folk can travel to one another. See here, you're looking for
some excuse to get rid of your damned money. Why don't you build roads?"

"Roads?" Truedale did not know whether to laugh or take his man
seriously.

"Yes, roads. I'm going down to Jim. I haven't much money; I've made a
good deal, but somehow I never seem able to be caught with the goods on
me. But what little I've got now goes to Jim for the purpose of forging
a connecting link between him and the Centre. But here's a job for you.
You can grasp this need. I've got a boy in the hospital; he caved in
from over-study. Trying to get an education while starving himself to
death and doing without underclothes. You ought to know how to hew a
short cut to him, Truedale; you did some hacking through underbrush
yourself. If I didn't believe folk would travel to one another over
roads, if there _were_ roads, I'd go out and cut my throat."

The big man, troubled and as full of sympathy as a tender woman, paused
in his strides and ejaculated:

"Damn it all, Truedale!" Had he been a woman he would have dissolved in
tears.

Truedale at last caught his meaning. Here was a possible chance to set
the accumulating money free. For two hours, while the sun travelled down
to the west, the men talked over plans and projects.

"Of course I'll look after the boy in the hospital, Dr. McPherson. I
know the short cut to him and he probably can lead me to others, but I
want"--and here Truedale's eyes grew gloomy--"I want you to take with
you down to Pine Cone some checks signed in blank. I know the need of
roads down there," did he not? and for an instant his brows grew
furrowed as he reflected how different his own life might have been, had
travelling been easy, back in the time when he was at the mercy of the
storm.

"I'd like to do something for Pine Cone. Make the roads, of course, but
back up those men and women who are doing God's work down there with
little help or money. They know the people--Jim has explained them to
me. They're not 'extry polite,' Jim says, but they understand the needs.
I don't care to have my name known--I'm rather poor stuff for a
philanthropist--but I want to do something as a starter, and this seems
an inspiration."

McPherson had been listening, and gradually his long strides became less
nervous.

"Until to-day, I haven't wished your uncle back, Truedale, since he
went. He was a poor, inarticulate fellow, but I've learned to realize
that he had a wide vision."

"Thank you, Dr. McPherson, but I have often wished him back."

Once outside McPherson's house, Truedale raised his head and sniffed the
clear, winter air with keen enjoyment. A sense of achievement possessed
him; the joy of feeling he had solved a knotty problem. He found he
could think of Pine Cone--and, yes, of Nella-Rose--without a hurting
smart. He was going to do something for her--for her people! He was
going to make life easier--happier--for them, so he prayed in his
silent, wordless way. He had a new and strange impulse to go to Lynda
and tell her that at last he was released from any hold of the past. He
was going to do what he could and there was no longer any dragging of
the anchors. He wanted her to help him--to work out some questions from
the woman's point of view. So he hurried on and entered the house with a
light, boyish step.

Thomas, bent but stately, was laying the table in the cheerful dining
room. There were flowers in a deep green bowl, pale golden asters.

Long afterward Truedale recalled everything as if it had been burned in
his mind.

"Is Miss Lynda in?" he asked, for they all clung to the titles of the
old days.

"Not yet, Mister Con. She went out in a deal of a hurry long about
three o'clock. She didn't say a word--and that's agin her pleasant
fashion--so I took it that she had business that fretted her. She's been
in the workshop all day." Thomas put the plates in place. They were
white china, with delicate gold edges. "Hum! hum! Mister Con, your uncle
used to say, when he felt talkative, that Miss Lynda ought to have some
one to hold her back when she took to running."

"I'll look her up, Thomas!"

Conning went up to the workshop and turned on the electricity. A
desolate sensation overcame the exhilaration of the afternoon. Lynda
seemed strangely, ominously distant--as if she had gone upon a long,
long journey.

There was a dying fire on the hearth and the room was in order except
for the wide table upon which still lay the work Lynda had been engaged
with before she left the house.

Truedale sat down before it and gradually became absorbed, while not
really taking in the meaning of what he saw. He had often studied and
appreciated Lynda's original way of solving her problems. It was not
enough for her to place upon paper the designs her trained talent
evolved; she always, as she put it, lived in the rooms she conceived.
Here were real furniture--diminutive, but perfect, and real
hangings--colour and form ideal, and arranged so that they could be
shifted in order that light effects might be tested.

It was no wonder Truedale had often remarked that Lynda's work was so
individual and personal--she breathed the breath of life in it before
she let it go from her. Truedale had always been thankful that marriage
had not taken from Lynda her joy in her profession. He would have hated
to know that he interfered with so real and vital a gift.

But this room upon which he was now looking was different from anything
he had ever before seen in the workshop. It interested and puzzled him.

Lynda's specialties were libraries and living rooms; there were two or
three things she never attempted--and this? Truedale looked closer. How
pretty it was--like a child's playroom--and how fanciful! There was a
fireplace off in a corner, before which stood a screen with a most
benign goblin warning away, with spread claws, any heedless, toddling
feet. The broad window-seats might serve as boxes for childish treasure.
There were delectable, wee chairs and conveniently low stools; there was
a tiny bed set in a dim corner over which, on a protecting shield,
angels with folded wings and rapt faces were outlined.

"Why, this must be a--nursery!" Truedale exclaimed half aloud; "and she
said she would never design one."

Clearly he recalled Lynda's reason. "If a father and a mother cannot
conceive and carry out the needs of a nursery, they do not deserve one.
I could never bring myself to intrude there."

"What does this mean?" Truedale bent closer. The table had been painted
white to serve as a floor for the dainty setting, and now, as he looked
he saw stains--dark, tell-tale stains on the shining surface.

They were tear-stains; Lynda, who so joyously put her heart and soul in
the ideals for other homes, had wept over the nursery of another woman's
child!

For some reason Truedale was that day particularly open to impression.
As he sat with the toy-like emblems before him, the holiest and
strongest things of life seized upon him with terrific meaning. He drew
out his watch and saw that it was the dinner hour and the still house
proved that the mistress was yet absent.

"There is only one person to whom she would go," he murmured. "I'll go
to Betty's and bring Lynda home."

He made an explanation to Thomas that covered the situation.

"I found what the trouble was, Thomas," he said. "It will be all right
when we get back. But don't keep dinner."

He took a cab to Brace's. He was too distraught to put himself on
exhibition in a public conveyance. Brace sat in lonely but apparently
contented state at the head of his table.

"Bully for you, old man," he greeted. "You were never more welcome. I'll
have a plate put on for you at once. What's the matter? You look--"

"Ken, where's Betty?"

"Run away to herself, Con. Went yesterday. Goes less and less often, but
she cut yesterday."

"Has--has Lynda been here to-day?"

"Yes. About three. When she found Betty gone, she wouldn't stay. Sit
down, old man. You'll learn, as I have, to appreciate Lyn more if she
isn't always where we men have thought women ought to be."

Truedale sat down opposite Kendall but said he would take only a cup of
coffee. When it was finished he rose, more steadily, and said quietly:

"I know it's unwritten law, Ken, that we shouldn't follow Betty up
without an invitation; but I've got to go over there to-night."

"It's dangerous, old man. I advise against it. What's up?"

"I must see Lyn. I believe she is there."

"Rather a large-sized misunderstanding?"

"I hope, Ken, God helping me, it's going to be the biggest
_understanding_ Lynda and I have ever had."

Kendall was impressed--and, consequently, silent.

"I'm sure Betty will forgive me. Good-night."

"Good-night, old chap, and--and whatever it is, I fancy it will come out
all right."

And then, into the night Truedale plunged--determined to master the
absurd situation that both he and Lynda had permitted to exist. He felt
like a man who had been suffering in a nightmare and had just awakened
and shaken off the effect of the unholy dream.




CHAPTER XIX


Lynda, that winter day, had undertaken her task with unwonted energy.
She had never done a similar piece of work before. In her early
beginning she had rather despised the inadequacy of women who, no matter
what might be said in defense of their ignorance regarding the rest of
their homes, did not know how to design and plan their own nurseries.
Later she had eliminated designing of this kind because so few asked for
it, and it did not pay to put much time on study in preparation for the
rare occasions when nurseries were included in the orders. But this was
an exception. A woman who had lost three children was expecting the
fourth, and she had come to Lynda with a touching appeal.

"You helped make a home of my house, Mrs. Truedale, but I always managed
the nursery--myself before; now I cannot. I want you to put joy and
welcome in it for me. If I were to undertake it I should fail miserably,
and evolve only gloom and fear. It will be different--afterward. But you
understand and--you will?"

Lynda had understood and had set herself to her work with the new, happy
insight that Betty's little baby had made possible. It had all gone
well until the "sleeping corner" was reached, and then--something
happened. A memory of one of Betty's confessions started it. "Lyn," she
had said, just before her baby came, "I kneel by this small, waiting
crib and pray--as only mothers know how to pray--and God teaches them
afresh every time! I do so want to be worthy of the confidence of--God."

"And I--am never to know!" Lynda bowed her head. "I with my love--with
my desire to hear God speak--am never to hear. Why?"

Then it was that Lynda wept. Wept first from a desolate sense of defeat;
then--and God sometimes speaks to women kneeling beside the beds of
children not their own--she raised her head and trembled at the flood of
joy that overcame her. It was like a mirage, seen in another woman's
world, of her own blessed heritage.

Filled with this vision she had fled to Betty's, only to find that Betty
had fled on her own account!

There was no moment of indecision; welcome or not, Lynda had to reach
Betty--and at once!

She had tarried, after setting her face to the river. She even stopped
at a quiet little tea room and ate a light meal. Then she waited until
the throng of business men had crossed the ferry to their homes. It was
quite dark when she reached the wooded spot where, hidden deep among the
trees, was Betty's retreat.

There was a light in the house--the living room faced the path--and
through the uncurtained window Lynda saw Betty sitting before the fire
with her little dog upon her lap.

"Oh, Betty," she whispered, stretching her arms out to the lonely little
figure in the low, deep chair. "Betty! Betty!" She waited a moment, then
she tapped lightly upon the glass. The dog sprang to the floor, its
sharp ears twitching, but he did not bark. Betty came to the door and
stood in the warm, lighted space with arms extended. She knew no fear,
there was only doubt upon her face.

"Lyn, is it you?"

"Yes! How did you guess?"

"All day I've been thinking about you--wanting you. Sometimes I can
bring people that way."

"And I have wanted you! Betty, may I stay--to-night?"

"Why, yes, dear. Stay until you want to go home. I've been pulling
myself together; I'm almost ready to go back to Brace. Come in!
Why--what is it, dear? Come, let me take off your things! There! Now lie
back in the chair and tell Betty all about it."

"No, no! Betty, I want to sit so--at your feet. I want to learn all that
you can teach me. You have never had your eyes blinded--or you would
know how the light hurts."

"Well, then. Put your blessed, tired head on my knee. You're my little
girl to-night, Lyn, and I am your--mother."

For a moment Lynda cried as a child might who had reached safety at
last. Betty did not check or soothe the heavy sobs--she waited. She knew
Lynda was saved from whatever had troubled her. It was only the telling
of it now. And presently the dark head was lifted.

"Betty, it is Con and I!"

"Yes, dear."

"I've loved him all my life; and I believe--I _know_--he loved me! Women
do not make mistakes about the real thing."

"Never, Lyn, never."

"Betty, once when I thought Con had wronged me, I wanted to come to
you--I almost did--but I couldn't then! Now that I am sure I have
wronged him, it is easy to come to you--you are so understanding!" The
radiance of Lynda's face rather startled Betty. Abandon, relief,
glorified it until it seemed a new--a far more beautiful face.

"All my life, Betty, I've been controlling myself--conquering myself. I
got started that way and--and I've kept on. I've never done anything
without considering and weighing; but now I'm going to fling myself into
love and life and--pay whatever there is to pay."

"Why, Lyn, dear, please go slower." Betty pressed her face to the head
at her knee.

"Betty, there was another love in Con's life--one that should never
have been there."

This almost took Betty's breath. She was thankful Lynda's eyes were
turned away; but by some strange magic the words raised Truedale in
Betty's very human imagination.

"I sometimes think the--the thing that happened--was the working out of
an old inheritance; Con has overcome much, but that caught him in its
snare. He was ready to let it ruin his whole future. He would never have
flinched--never have known, or admitted if he had known--what he had
foregone. But the thing was taken out of his control altogether--the
girl married another man!

"When Con came to himself again, he told me, Betty--told me so simply,
so tragically, that I saw what a deep cut the experience had made in his
life--how it had humbled him. Never once did he blame any one else. I
loved him for the way he looked upon it; so many men could not have done
so. That made the difference with me. It was what the thing had done to
Con that made it possible for me to love him the more!

"He wanted the best things in life but didn't think he was worthy! And
I? Well, I thought I saw enough for us both, and so I married him! Then
something happened--it doesn't matter what it was--it was a foolish,
ugly thing, but it had to be something. And Con thought I had never
forgiven the--the first love--that I had sacrificed myself for him--in
marriage! And no woman could bear that."

"My poor, dear Lyn."

"Can't you see, Betty, it all comes from the idiotic idea that men--some
men--have about women. They put us on a toppling pedestal; when we fall
they are surprised, and when we don't they--are afraid of us! And all
the time--you know this, Betty--we ought not to be on pedestals at all;
we don't--we _don't_ belong on them! We want to be close and go along
together."

"Yes, Lyn; we do! we do!"

"Well--after Con misunderstood, I just let him go along thinking I
was--well, the kind of woman who could sacrifice herself. I thought he
would want me so that he would--find out. And so we've been eating our
hearts out--for ages!"

"Why, Lyn! you cruel, foolish girl."

"Yes--and because I knew you would say that--I could come to you.
You--do not blame Con?"

"Blame _him_! Why, Lyn, a gentleman doesn't take a woman off her beastly
pedestal; she comes down herself--if she isn't a fool."

"Well, Betty, I'm down! I'm down, and I'm going to crawl to Con, if
necessary, and then--I think he'll lift me up."

"He'll never pull you down, that's one sure thing!"

"Oh! thank you, Betty. Thank you."

"But, Lyn--what has so suddenly brought you to your senses?"

"Your little baby, Betty!"

"My--baby!" The words came in a hard, gasping breath.

"I held him when he died, Betty. I had never been close to a baby
before--never! A strange thing happened to me as I looked at him. It was
like knowing what a flower would be while holding only the bud. The
baby's eyes had the same expression I have seen in Con's eyes--in
Brace's; I know now it is the whole world's look. It was full of
wonder--full of questions as to what it all meant. I am sure that it
comes and goes but never really is answered--here, Betty."

"Oh! Lyn. And I have been bitter--miserable--because I felt that it
wasn't fair to take my baby until he had done some little work in the
world! And now--why, he did a great thing. My little, little baby!"
Betty was clinging to Lynda, crying as if all the agony were swept away
forever.

"Sometimes"--Lynda pressed against Betty--"sometimes, lately, in Con's
eyes I have seen the look! It was as if he were asking me whether he had
yet been punished enough! And I've been thinking of myself--thinking
what Con owed _me;_ what _I_ wanted; _when_ I should have it! I hate and
despise myself for my littleness and prudery; why, he's a thousand times
finer than I! That's what pedestals have done for women. But now,
Betty, I'm down; and I'm down to stay. I'm--"

"Wait, Lyn, dear." Betty mopped her wet face and started up. She had
seen a tall form pass the window, and she felt as if something
tremendous were at stake. "Just a minute, Lyn. I must speak to Mrs.
Waters if you are to stay over night. She's old, you know, and goes
early to bed."

Lynda still sat on the floor--her face turned to the red glow of the
fire that was growing duller and duller. Presently the door opened, and
her words flowed on as if there had been no interruption.

"I'm going to Con to-morrow. I had to make sure--first; but I know now,
I know! I'm going to tell him all about it--and ask him to let me walk
beside him. I'm going to tell him how lonely I've been in the place he
put me--how I've hated it! And some time--I feel as sure as sure can
be--there will be something I can do that will prove it."

"My--darling!"

Arms stronger than Betty's held her close--held her with a very human,
understanding strength.

"You've done the one big thing, Lyn!"

"Not yet, not yet, Con, dear."

"You have made me realize what a wrong--a bitter wrong--I did you, when
I thought you could be less than a loving woman."

"Oh, Con! And have you been lonely, too?"

"Sweet, I should have died of loneliness had something not told me I
was still travelling up toward you. That has made it possible."

"Instead"--Lynda drew his face down to hers--"instead, I've been
struggling up toward _you!_! Dear, dear Con, it isn't men and women;
it's _the_ man--_the_ woman. Can't you see? It's the sort of thing life
makes of us that counts; not the steps we take on the way. You--you know
this, Con?"

"I know it, now, from the bottom of my soul."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was one of Betty's quaint sayings that some lives were guided by
flashlights, others by a steady gleam. Hers had always been by the
former method. She made her passage from one illumination to another
with great faith, high courage, and much joyousness. After the night
when Lynda made her see what her dear, dead baby had accomplished in his
brief stay, she rose triumphant from her sorrow. She was her old, bright
self again; she sang in her home, transfigured Brace by her happiness,
and undertook her old interests and duties with genuine delight.

But for Lynda and Truedale the steady gleam was necessary. They never
questioned--never doubted--after the night when they came home from the
little house in the woods. To them both happiness was no new thing; it
was a precious old thing given back after a dark period of testing. The
days were all too short, and when night brought Conning running and
whistling to the door, Lynda smiled and realized that at last the fire
was burning briskly on her nice, clean hearth. They had so much in
common--so much that demanded them both in the doing of it.

"No bridges for us, here and there, over which to reach each other,"
thought Lynda; "it's the one path for us both." Then her eyes grew
tenderly brooding as she remembered how 'twas a little child that had
led them--not theirs, but another's.

The business involved in setting old William Truedale's money in
circulation was absorbing Conning at this time. Once he set his feet
upon the way, he did not intend to turn back; but he sometimes wondered
if the day would ever come when he could, with a clear conscience, feel
poor enough to enjoy himself, selfishly, once more.

From McPherson he heard constantly of the work in the southern hills.
Truedale was, indeed, a strong if silent and unsuspected force there. As
once he had been an unknown quantity, so he remained; but the work went
on, supervised by Jim White, who used with sagacity and cleverness the
power placed in his hands.

Truedale's own particular interests were nearly all educational. Even
here, he held himself in reserve--placed in more competent hands the
power they could wield better than he. Still, he was personally known
and gratefully regarded by many young men and women who were
struggling--as he once had struggled--for what to them was dearer than
all else. He always contrived to leave them their independence and
self-respect. Naturally all this was gratifying and vital to Lynda.
Achievement was dear to her temperament, and the successes of others,
especially those nearest to her, were more precious to her than her own.
She saw Truedale drop his old hesitating, bewildered manner like a
discarded mantle. She grew to rely upon his calm strength that developed
with the demands made upon it. She approved of him so! And that
realization brought out the best in her.

One November evening she and Con were sitting in the library, Truedale
at his desk, Lynda idly and luxuriously rocking to and fro, her hands
clasped over her head. She had learned, at last, the joy of absolute
relaxation.

"There's a big snow-storm setting in," she said, smiling softly. Then,
apropos of nothing: "Con, we've been married four years and over!"

"Only that, Lyn? It seems to me like my whole life."

"Oh, Con--so long as that?"

"Blessedly long."

After another pause Lynda spoke merrily: "Con, I want some of Uncle
William's money. A lot of it."

Truedale tossed her a new check book. "Now that you see there is no
string tied to it," he said, "may I ask what for? Just sympathetic
interest, you know."

"Of course. Well, it's this way. Betty and I are broke. It's fine for
you to make roads and build schools and equip the youth of America for
getting all the learning they can carry, but Betty and I are after the
babies. We've been agonizing over the Saxe Home--Betty's on the
Board--and before Christmas we are going to undress all those poor
standardized infants and start their cropped hair to growing."

Truedale laughed heartily. "Intimacy with Betty," he said, "has coloured
your descriptive powers, Lyn, dear."

"Oh, all happy women talk one tongue."

"And you _are_ happy, Lyn?"

"Happy? Yes--happy, Con!"

They smiled at each other across the broad table.

"Betty has told the superintendent that if there is a blue stripe or a
cropped head on December twenty-fourth, she's going to recommend the
dismissal of the present staff."

"Good Lord! Does any one ever take Betty seriously? I should think one
of those board meetings would bear a strong family resemblance to an
afternoon tea--rather a frivolous one."

"They don't. And, honestly, people are tremendously afraid of Betty. She
makes them laugh, but they know she gets what she wants--and with a
joke she drives her truths home."

"There's something in that." Truedale looked earnest. "She's a great
Betty."

"So it's up to Betty and me, now," Lynda went on. "We can take off the
shabby, faded little duds, but we've got to have something to put on at
once, or the kiddies will take cold."

"Surely."

"We think that to start a child out in stripes is almost as bad as
finishing him in them. To make a child feel--different--is sure to damn
him."

"And so you are going to make the Saxe Home an example and set the ball
rolling."

"Exactly, Con. And we're going to slam the door in the faces of the
dramatic rich this Christmas. The lambies at the Saxe are going to have
a nice, old-fashioned tree. They are going to dress it themselves the
night before, and whisper up the chimney what they want--and there is
not going to be a speech on Christmas Day within a mile of that Home!"

"That's great. I'd like to come in on that myself."

"You can, Con, we'll need you."

"Christmas always does set the children in one's thoughts, doesn't it? I
suppose Betty is particularly keen--having had her baby for a day or
so." Truedale's eyes were tender. Betty's baby and its fulfilled mission
were sacred to him and Lynda.

"Betty is going to adopt a child, Con."

"Really?"

"Yes. She says she cannot stand Christmas without one. It's a rebuke
to--to her boy."

"Poor little Bet!"

"Oh! it makes me so--so humble when I see her courage. She says if she
has a dozen children of her own it will make no difference; she must
have her first child's representative. She's about decided upon the
one--he's the most awful of them all. She's only hesitating to see if
anything awfuller will turn up. She says she's going to take a baby no
one else will have--she's going to do the biggest thing she can for her
own dead boy. As if her baby ever could be dead! Sometimes I think he is
more alive than if he had stayed here and got all snarled up in earthly
things--as so many do!"

Conning came close to Lynda and drew her head back against his breast.

"You are--crying, darling!" he said.

"It's--it's Betty. Con, what is it about her that sort of brightens the
way for us all, yet dims our eyes?"

"She's very illuminating. It's a big thing--this of adopting a child.
What does Brace think of it?"

"He adores everything Betty does. He says"--Lynda smiled up into the
face above her--"he says he wishes Betty had chosen one with hair a
little less crimson, but that doubtless he'll grow to like that tint
better than any other."

"Lyn, have you ever thought of adopting a child?"

"Oh!--sometimes. Yes, Con."

"Well, if you ever feel that you ought--that you want to--I will be glad
to--to help you. I see the risk--the chance, and I think I would like a
handsome one. But it is Christmas time, and a man and woman, if they
have their hearts in the right places, do think of children and trees
and all the rest at this season. Still"--and with that Truedale pressed
his lips to Lynda's hair--"I'm selfish, you seem already to fill every
chink of my life."

"Con, that's a blessed thing to say to a woman--even though the woman
knows you ought not to say it. And now, I'm going to tell you something
else, Con. It's foolish and trifling, perhaps, but I've set my heart
upon it ever since the Saxe Home got me to thinking."

"Anything in the world, Lyn! Can I help?"

"I should say you could. You'll have to be about the whole of it.
Starting this Christmas, I'm going to have a tree--right here in this
room--close to Uncle William's chair!"

"By Jove! and for--for whom?"

"Why, Con, how unimaginative you are! For you, for me, for Uncle
William, for any one--any really right person, young or old--who needs a
Christmas tree. Somehow, I have a rigid belief that some one will
always be waiting. It may not be an empty-handed baby. Perhaps you and I
may have to care for some dear _old_ soul that others have forgotten. We
could do this for Uncle William, couldn't we, Con?"

"Yes, my darling."

"The children cannot always know what they are missing, but the old can,
and my heart aches for them often--aches until it really hurts."

"My dear girl!"

"They are so alike, Con, the babies and the very aged. They need the
same things--the coddling, the play, the pretty toys to amuse
them--until they fall asleep."

"Lynda, you are all nerves and fancies. Pretty ones--but dangerous.
We'll have our tree--we'll call it Uncle William's. We'll take any
one--every one who is sent to us--and be grateful. And that makes me
think, we must have a particularly giddy celebration up at the
Sanatorium. McPherson and I were speaking of it to-day."

"Con, I wonder how many secret interests you have of which I do not
know?"

"Not many."

"I wonder!"

Truedale laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Well," he said, suddenly changing
the subject, "talking about nerves reminds me that when the holidays are
over you and I are going away on a honeymoon. After this we are to have
one a year. We'll drop everything and indulge in the heaven-given luxury
of loafing. You need it. Your eyes are too big and your face too pale. I
don't see what has ailed me not to notice before. But right after
Christmas, dear, I'm going to run away with you.... What are you
thinking about, Lyn?"

"Oh, only the blessedness of being taken care of! It's strange, but I
know now that all my life--before this--I was gazing at things through
closed windows. Alone in my cell I looked out--sometimes through
beautiful stained glass, to be sure--at trees waving and people passing.
Now and then some one paused and spoke to me, but always with the
barrier between. Now--I touch people--there is nothing to keep us apart.
I'm just like everybody else; and your love and care, Con, have set the
windows wide!"

"This will never do, Lyn. Such fancies! I may have to take you away
_before_ Christmas." Truedale spoke lightly but his look was anxious.

"In the meantime, let us go out for a walk in the snow. There's enough
wind to make it a tussle. Come, dear!"




CHAPTER XX


Two days later Lynda came down from her workshop by the back stairs, and
passed through William Truedale's bedchamber on the way to the library.
It was only ten o'clock in the morning but Truedale had a habit, if he
happened to be in the neighbourhood, of dropping in for a moment at this
hour. If he should to-day Lynda wanted to confer with him about some
details concerning the disrobing of the Saxe infants. She was
particularly light hearted and merry. A telephone call from Betty had
put her in the sunniest humour.

To her surprise, as she entered the library, she saw a small, most
peculiar-looking woman sitting quite straight on the edge of a chair in
the middle of the room.

It was a cast-iron rule that Lynda must not be disturbed at her morning
work. Thomas generally disposed of visitors without mercy.

"Good morning!" Lynda said kindly. "Can I do anything for you? I am
sorry you had to wait."

She concluded it was some one connected with the Saxe Home. That was
largely in her mind at the moment.

"I want to see"--and here the strange little figure came to Lynda and
held out a very dirty, crumpled piece of paper on which was written
Truedale's name and address.

"Mr. Truedale may not be home until evening," Lynda said. And now she
thought that this must be one of the private and pet dependents of Con's
with whom she would deal very gently and tactfully. "I wonder if you
won't tell me all about it and I will either tell Mr. Truedale or set a
time for you to see him."

Glad of any help in this hour of extremity, the stranger said:

"I'm--I'm Nella-Rose. Do you know about me?"

Know about her? Why, after the first stunning shock, she seemed to be
the _only_ thing Lynda did know about--ever had known! She stared at the
little figure before her for what seemed an hour. She noted the worried,
pitiful child face that, screened behind the worn and care-lined
features, looked forth like a pretty flower. Then Lynda said, weakly:

"Yes, I know about you--all about you, Nella-Rose."

The pitiful eyes brightened. What Nella-Rose had been through since
leaving her hills only God understood.

"I'm right glad! And you--you are--"

"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?"

"Yes. He told me, if I wanted him--and I did--Godda'mighty! how I wanted
him then!" Nella-Rose clasped her poor little work-hardened hands close,
and her small white teeth showed through the parted lips while she
struggled to regain her calm.

"You see--when I gave the letter to Bill Trim, I--I told him--I had
to--that it was Miss Lois Ann's, so he didn't think it mattered to me;
but when he was dying--he was hurt on the big road they are making in
the hills--he was brought to us-all, and Miss Lois Ann and I took care
of him, and he grew right sorry for hating her and not telling about the
letter--and then--he spoke it out!"

"I see. I see. And that was--how long ago--that you wrote the letter?"

Nella-Rose looked back over the weary way she had travelled, to this
moment in the warm, sun-filled room.

"It was befo' lil' Ann came that I sent the letter," she faltered.

"Little Ann?" Lynda repeated the name and something terrible rose within
her--something that would kill her unless she conquered it. So she asked
quickly, desperately:

"Your--your child? I see. Go on--Nella-Rose."

"I wrote the letter and--sent it. I was hid in Miss Lois Ann's cabin--it
was winter--and no one found out! Miss Lois Ann wouldn't believe what I
told; she said when him and me was married under the trees and God
understood, it didn't make me--right! She--helped me, but she
hated--him! And then when he--didn't come, she taught me to--to hate,
and it was right _black_ hate until lil' Ann came. When God let her down
to me--He took the hate away."

Lynda was blinded by her tears. She could hardly see the small figure
crouching in the low chair by the fire.

"And then--Miss Lois Ann went and told my folks--told Marg, my sister.
Marg was married to Jed and she was mighty scornful of me and lil' Ann.
She wouldn't tell Jed and my father--she came alone to me. She told me
what folks thought. They-all thought I'd gone away with Burke Lawson and
Marg felt sorry to see me alive--with lil' Ann. But Miss Lois Ann
wouldn't let her sting me with her tongue--she drove her away.
Then--Burke came! He'd been a right long way off--he'd broken his leg;
he came as soon as he could, and Marg told him and--and laid lil' Ann to
him!"

"And you--never spoke? You never told?" Lynda had drawn very close--her
words were barely above a whisper.

"No. It was this-er-way. First, love for him held my tongue mighty
still; then hate; and afterwards I couldn't!"

"But now, Nella-Rose, _now_--why have you spoken--now?"

"I haven't yet. Not to them-all. I had to come here--to him first. I
reckon you don't know about Burke and me?"

Lynda shook her head. She had thought she knew--but she had wandered
sadly.

"When Marg laid my trouble to Burke he just took it! First I couldn't
understand. But he took my trouble--and me! He took lil' Ann and me out
of Miss Lois Ann's cabin into--peace and safety. He tied every one's
tongue--it seemed like he drove all the--the wrong away by his big,
strong love--and set me free, like he was God! He didn't ask nothing for
a right long time, not 'til I grew to--believe him and trust him. Then
we went--when no one knew--and was married. Now he's my man and he's
always been lil' Ann's father till--till--"

A log fell upon the hearth and both women started guiltily and
affrightedly.

"Go on! go on!" breathed Lynda. "Go on!"

"Till the twins came--Burke's and mine! Then he knew the
difference--even his love for me couldn't help him--it hindered; and
while I--I feared, I understood!"

"Oh! oh! oh!" Lynda covered her aching eyes with her cold hands. She
dared not look at Nella-Rose. That childish yet old face was crowding
everything but pity from the world. Truedale, herself--what did they
matter?

"He--he couldn't bear to have lil' Ann touch--the babies. I could see
him--shiver! And lil' Ann--she's like a flower--she fades if you don't
love her. She grew afraid and--and hid, and it seemed like the soul of
me would die; for, don't you see, Burke thinks that Marg's man is--is
the father, and Marg and Jed lays the trouble to Burke and they think
her--his! And--and it has grown more since the big road brought us-all
closer. The big road brought trouble as well as good. Once"--and here
the haggard face whitened--"once Burke and Jed fought--and a fight in
the hills means more fights! Just then Bill Trim was hurt and told me
before he died; it was like opening a grave! I 'most died 'long with
Bill Trim--'til I studied about lil' Ann! And then--I saw wide, and
right far, like I hadn't since--since before I hated. I saw how I must
come and--tell you-all, and how maybe you'd take lil' Ann, and then I
could go back to--to my man and--there'll be peace when he knows--at
last! Will you--oh! will you be with me, kind lady, when I--tell
your--your--man?" Nella-Rose dropped at Lynda's feet and was pleading
like a distraught child. "I've been so afraid. I did not know his world
was so full of noise and--and right many things. And he will
be--different--and I may not be able to make him understand. But you
will--_you_ will! I must get back to the hills. I done told Burke I--I
was going to prove myself to his goodness--by putting lil' Ann with them
as would be mighty kind to her. I seemed to know how it would turn
out--and I dared to say it; but now--now I am mighty--'fraid!"

The tears were falling from the pain-racked eyes--falling upon Lynda's
cold, rigid hands--and they seemed to warm her heart and clear her
vision.

"Nella-Rose," she said, "where is little Ann?"

"Lil' Ann? Why, there's lil' Ann sleeping her tire off under your
pillows. She was cold and mighty wore out." Nella-Rose turned toward the
deep couch under the broad window across the room.

Silently, like haunted creatures, both women stole toward the couch and
the mother drew away the sheltering screen of cushions. As she did so,
the little child opened her eyes, and for a moment endeavoured to find
her place in the strangeness. She looked at her mother and smiled a
slow, peculiar smile. Then she fixed her gaze upon Lynda. It was an old,
old look--but young, too--pleading, wonder-filled. The child was so like
Truedale--so unmercifully, cruelly like him--that, for a moment, reason
deserted Lynda and she covered her face with both hands and swayed with
silent laughter.

Nella-Rose bent over her child as if to protect her. "Lil' Ann," she
whispered, "the lady is a right kind lady--right kind!" She felt she
must explain and justify.

After a moment or two Lynda gained control of her shaken nerves. She
suddenly found herself calm, and ready to undertake the hardest, the
most perilous thing that had ever come into her life. "Bring little Ann
to the fire;" she said, "I'm going to order some lunch, and then--we can
decide, Nella-Rose."

Nella-Rose obeyed, dumbly. She was completely under the control of the
only person, who, in this perplexed and care-filled hour, seemed able to
guide and guard her.

Lynda watched the two eat of the food Thomas brought in. There was no
fear of Truedale coming now. There was safety ahead for some hours.
Lynda herself made a pretext of eating, but she hardly took her eyes
from little Ann's face. She wanted familiarity to take the place of
shock. She must grow accustomed to that terrible resemblance, for she
knew, beyond all doubt, that it was to hold a place in all her future
life.

When the last drop of milk went gurgling down the little girl's throat,
when Nella-Rose pushed her plate aside, when Thomas had taken away the
tray, Lynda spoke:

"And now, Nella-Rose, what are you going to--to do with us all?"

The tired head of little Ann was pressed against her mother's breast.
The food, the heat, were lulling her weary senses into oblivion again.
Lynda gave a swift thought of gratitude for the momentary respite as she
watched the small, dark face sink from her direct view.

"We are all in your hands," she continued.

"In _my_ hands--_mine_?"

"Yes. Yours."

"I--I must--tell him--and then go home."

"Must you, Nella-Rose?"

"What else is there for me?"

"You must decide. You, alone."

"You"--the lips quivered--"you will not go with me?"

"I--cannot, Nella-Rose."

"Why?"

"Because"--and with all her might Lynda sought words that would lay low
the difference between her and the simple, primitive woman close to
her--felt she _must_ use ideas and terms that would convey her meaning
and not drive her and Nella-Rose apart--"because, while he is my man
now, he was first yours. Because you were first, you must go alone--if
go you must. Then he shall decide."

Nella-Rose grasped the deep meaning after a moment and sank back
shivering. The courage and endurance that had borne her to this hour
deserted her. The help, that for a time had seemed to rise up in Lynda,
crumbled. Alone, drifting she knew not where, Nella-Rose waited.

"I'm--afraid!" she repeated over and over. "I'm right afraid. He's not
the same; it's all, all gone--that other life--and yet I cannot let him
think--!"

The two women looked at each other over all that separated
them--and each comprehended! The soul of Nella-Rose demanded
justification--vindication--and Lynda knew that it should have it, if
the future were to be lived purely. There was just one thing Lynda had
to make clear in this vital moment, one truth that must be understood
without trespassing on the sacred rights of others. Surely Nella-Rose
should know all that there was to know before coming to her final
decision. So Lynda spoke:

"You think he"--she could not bring herself, for all her bravery and
sense of justice, to speak her husband's name--"you think he remembers
you as something less than you were, than you are? Nella-Rose, he never
has! He did not understand, but always he has held you sacred. Whatever
blame there may have been--he took it all. It was because he could;
because it was possible for him to do so, that I loved him--honoured
him. Had it been otherwise, as truly as God hears me, I could not have
trusted him with my life. That--that marriage of yours and his was as
holy to him as, I now see, it was to you; and he, in his heart, has
always remembered you as he might a dear, dead--wife!"

Having spoken the words that wrung her heart, Lynda sank back exhausted.
Then she made her first--her only claim for herself.

"It was when everything was past and his new life began--his man's
life--that I entered in. He--he told me everything."

Nella-Rose bent over her sleeping child, and a wave of compassion
overflooded her thought.

"I--I must think!" she whispered, and closed her lovely eyes. What she
saw in the black space behind the burning lids no one could know, but
her tangled little life must have been part of it. She must have seen it
all--the bright, sunlit dream fading first into shadow, then into the
dun colour of the deserted hills. Burke Lawson must have stood boldly
forth, in his supreme unselfishness and Godlike power, as her
redeemer--her man! The gray eyes suddenly opened and they were calm and
still.

"I--I only wanted him--to remember me--like he once did," she faltered.
She was taking her last look at Truedale. "So long as he--he didn't
think me--less; I reckon I don't want him--to think of me as I
am--now."

"Suppose"--the desperate demand for full justice to Nella-Rose drove
Lynda on--"suppose it were in your power and mine to sweep everything
aside; suppose I--I went away. What would you do, Nella-Rose?"

Again the eyes closed. After a moment:

"I--would go back to--my man!"

"You mean that--as truly as God hears you?--you mean that, Nella-Rose?"

"Yes. But lil' Ann?"

Now that she had made the great decision about Truedale, there was still
"lil' Ann."

Lynda fought for mastery over the dread thing that was forcing its way
into her consciousness. Then something Nella-Rose was saying caught her
fevered thought.

"When I was a lil' child I used to dream that some day I would do a
mighty big thing--maybe this is it. I don't want to hurt his life
and--yours; I couldn't hurt my man and--and--the babies waiting back
there for me. But--lil' Ann!"

The name came like a sob. And somehow Lynda thought of Burke Lawson!
Burke, who had done his strong best, and still could not keep himself in
control because of--lil' Ann! The helpless baby was--oh! yes, yes--it
was Truedale's responsibility. If she, Lynda, were to keep her life--her
sacred love--she, too, must do a "big thing"--perhaps the biggest a
woman is ever called upon to do--to prove her faith.

For another moment she struggled; then, like a blind woman, she
stretched out her hands and laid them upon the child.

"Nella-Rose, will you give--_me_ little Ann?"

"Give her--to--you?" There was anguish, doubt, but hope, in the words.

"I want--the child! She shall have her father--her father's home--his
love, God willing! And I, Nella-Rose, as I hope for God's mercy, I will
do my duty by little Ann."

And now Lynda was on the floor beside the shabby pair, shielding them as
best she could from the last wrench and renunciation.

"Are you doing this for--for your man?" whispered Nella-Rose.

"Yes. For my--man!" They looked long into each other's eyes. Then
solemnly, slowly, Nella-Rose relinquished her hold of the child.

"I--give you--lil' Ann." So might she have spoken if, in religious
fervour, she had been resigning her child to death. "I--I--give you lil'
Ann." Gently she kissed the sleeping face and laid her burden in the
aching, strained arms that had still to learn their tender lesson of
bearing. Ann opened her eyes, her lips quivered, and she turned to her
mother.

"Take--lil' Ann!" she pleaded. Then Nella-Rose drank deep of the bitter
cup, but she smiled--and spoke one of the lies over which angels have
wept forgivingly since the world began.

"Lil' Ann, the kind lady is going to keep yo' right safe and happy 'til
mother makes things straight back there with--with yo'--father, in the
hills. Jes' yo' show the lady how sweet and pretty yo' can be 'til
mother comes fo' yo'! Will yo'--lil' Ann?"

"How long?"

"A mighty lil' while."

All her life the child had given up--shrunk from that which she feared
but did not understand; and now she accepted it all in the dull,
hopeless way in which timid children do. She received her mother's
kiss--gave a kiss in return; then she looked gloomily, distrustingly, at
Lynda. After that she seemed complacent and obeyed, almost stupidly,
whatever she was told to do.

Lynda took Nella-Rose to the station, saw to her every comfort, put a
sum of money in her hand with the words:

"You must take it, Nella-Rose--to prove your trust in me; and it will
buy some--some things for--the other babies. But"--and here she went
close to Nella-Rose, realizing for the first time that the most
difficult part, for her, was yet to come--"how will it be with--with
your man--when he knows?"

Nella-Rose looked up bravely and something crept into her eyes--the
look of power that only a woman who recognizes her hold on a man ever
shows.

"He'll bear it--right grateful--and it'll wipe away the hate for Jed
Martin. He'll do the forgiving--since I've given up lil' Ann; and if he
doubts--there's Miss Lois Ann. She's mighty powerful with men--when it's
women that matters."

"It's very wonderful!" murmured Lynda. "More wonderful than I can
understand." And yet as she spoke she knew that she _did_ understand.
Between her and Burke Lawson, a man she was never to know, there was a
common tie--a deep comprehension.

Late that afternoon Lynda drove to Betty's with little Ann sitting
rigidly on the seat beside her. The child had not spoken since she had
seen the train move out of the station bearing her mother away. She had
not cried or murmured. She had gone afterward, holding Lynda's hand,
through amazing experiences. She had seen her shabby garments discarded
in dazzling shops, and fine apparel replace them. Once she had caught a
glimpse of her small, transformed self in a long mirror and her dark
eyes had widened. That was all. Lynda had watched her feverishly. She
had hoped that with the change of clothing the startling likeness would
lessen, but it did not. Robed in the trappings of her father's world,
little Ann seemed to become more wholly his.

"Do you like yourself, little Ann?" Lynda had asked when, at last, a
charming hat was placed upon the dark curls.

There was no word of reply--only the wide, helpless stare--and, to cover
her confusion, Lynda hurried away to Betty.

The maid who admitted her said that "Mrs. Kendall was upstairs in the
nursery with the baby."

Lynda paused on the stairs and asked blankly: "The baby? What baby?"

The maid was a trusted one and close to Betty.

"The little boy from the Home, Mrs. Truedale," she replied, "and already
the house is cheerfuller."

Lynda felt a distinct disappointment. She had hoped that Betty would
care for little Ann for a few days, but how could she ask it of her now?

In the sunny room upstairs Betty sat in a low rocker, crooning away to a
restless bundle in her arms.

"You, Lyn?" Lynda stood in the doorway; Betty's back was to her.

"Yes, Betty."

"Come and see my red-headed boy--my Bobilink! He's going to be Robert
Kendall."

Then Lynda drew near with Ann. Betty stopped rocking and confronted the
two with her far-reaching, strangely penetrating gaze.

"What a beautiful little girl," she whispered.

"Is she beautiful, Betty?"

"She's--lovely. Come here, dear, and see my baby." Betty put forth a
welcoming hand to the child, but Ann shrank away and her long silence
was broken.

"I jes' naturally hate babies!" she whispered, in the soft drawl that
betrayed her.

"Lyn, who is she? Why--what is the matter?"

Lynda came close and her words did not reach past Betty's strained
hearing. "I--I'm going to--adopt her. I--I must prepare, Con. I hoped
you'd keep her for a few days."

"Of course I will, Lyn. I'm ready--but Lyn, tell me!"

"Betty, look at her! She has come out of--of Con's past. He doesn't
know, he mustn't know--not now! She belongs to--to the future. Can
you--can you understand? I never suspected until to-day. I've got to get
used to it!" Then, fiercely: "But I'm going to do it, Betty! Con's road
is my road; his duty my duty; it's all right--only just at first--I've
got to--steady my nerves!"

Without a word Betty rose and laid the now-sleeping baby in a crib; then
she came back to the low chair and opened her arms to little Ann with
the heaven-given gesture that no child resists--especially a suffering,
lonely child.

"Come here, little girl, to--to Aunt Betty," she said.

Fascinated, Ann walked to the shelter offered.

"Will you kiss me?" Betty asked. The kiss was given mutely.

"Will you tell Aunt Betty your name?"

"Ann."

"Ann what?"

"Jes' lil' Ann."

Then Betty raised her eyes to Lynda's face and smiled at its tragic
suffering.

"Poor, old Lyn!" she said, "run home to Con. You need him and God knows
he needs you. It will take the big love, Lyn, dear, the big love; but
you have it--you have it!"

Without a word Lynda turned and left Betty with the children.




CHAPTER XXI


Potential motherhood can endure throes of travail other than physical;
and for the next week Lynda passed through all the phases of spiritual
readjustment that enabled her, with blessed certainty of success, to
accept what she had undertaken.

She did not speak to Truedale at once, but she went daily to Betty's and
with amazement watched the miracle Betty was performing. She never
forgot the hour, when, going softly up the stairs, she heard little Ann
laugh gleefully and clap her hands.

Betty was playing with the baby and telling Ann a story at the same
time. Lynda paused to listen.

"And now come here, little Ann, and kiss Bobilink. Isn't he smelly-sweet
and wonderful?"

"Yes."

"That's right. Kiss him again. And you once said you just naturally
didn't like babies! Little Ann, you are a humbug. And now tell me how
much you like Bobilink."

"Heaps and lickwigs."

"Now kiss me, you darling, and come close--so we will not waken Bobbie.
Let me see, this is going to be the story of the little girl who adopted
a--mother! Yesterday it was Bobbie's story of how a mother adopted a
little boy. You remember, the mother had to have a baby to fill a big
empty space, so she went to a house where some lost kiddies were and
found just the one that fitted in and--and--but this is Ann's story
to-day!

"Once there was a little girl--a very dear and good little girl--who
knew all about a mother, and how dear a mother was; because she had one
who was obliged to go away--"

"For a right lil' time?" Ann broke in.

"Of course," Betty agreed, "a right little time; but the small girl
thought, while she waited, that she would adopt a mother and not tell
her about the other one, for fear she might not understand, and she'd
teach the adopted mother how to be a real mother. And now one must
remember all the things little girls do to--to adopted mothers. First--"

At this point Lynda entered the room, but Betty went on calmly:

"First, what do little girls do, Ann?"

"Teach them how to hold lil' girls."

"Splendid! What next?"

"Kiss them and cuddle them right close."

"Exactly! Next?"

"They make mothers glad and they make them laugh--by being mighty good."

Then both Betty and Ann looked at Lynda. The sharp, outer air had
brought colour to her cheeks, life to her eyes. She was very handsome
in her rich furs and dark, feathered hat.

"Now, little Ann, trot along and do the lesson, don't forget!" Betty
pushed the child gently toward Lynda.

With a laugh, lately learned and a bit doubtful, Ann ran to the opened
arms.

"Snuggle!" commanded Betty.

"I'm learning, little Ann," Lynda whispered, "you're a dear teacher. And
now I have something to tell you."

Ann leaned back and looked with suspicion at Lynda. Her recent past had
been so crowded with events that she was wary and overburdened.

"What?" she asked, with more dread than interest.

"Ann, I'm going to take you to a big house that is waiting for a--little
girl."

The child turned to Betty.

"I don't want to go," she said, and her pretty mouth quivered. Was she
always to be sent away?--always to have to go when she did not want to
go?

Betty smiled into the worried little face. "Oh! we'll see each other
every day," she comforted; "and besides, this is the only way you can
truly adopt a mother and play fair. It will be another dear place for
Bobilink to go for a visit, and best of all--there's a perfectly
splendid man in the big house--for a--for--a father!"

Real fear came into Ann's eyes at this--fear that lay at the root of
all her trouble.

"No!" she cried. "I can't play father!"

Lynda drew her to her closely. "Ann, little Ann, don't say that!" she
pleaded passionately: "I'll help you, and together we'll make it come
true. We must, we must!"

Her vehemence stilled the child. She put her hands on either side of
Lynda's face and timidly faltered: "I'll--I'll try."

"Thank you, dear. And now I want to tell you something else--we're going
to have a Christmas tree."

This meant nothing to the little hill-child, so she only stared.

"And you must come and help."

"You have something to teach her, Lyn," Betty broke in. There were tears
in her eyes. "Just think of a baby-thing like that not knowing the
thrills of Christmas."

Then she turned to Ann: "Go, sweetheart," she said, "and make a nest for
Bobbie on the bed across the hall." And then when Ann trotted off to do
the bidding, Betty asked: "What did he say, Lyn, when you told him?"

"He said he was glad, very glad. He has been willing, for a long time,
that I should take a child--when I saw one I wanted. He naturally
connects Ann with the Saxe Home; her being with you has strengthened
this belief. I shall let it go at that--for a time, Betty."

"Yes. It is better so. After he learns to know and love the child,"
Betty mused, "the way will be opened. And oh! Lyn, Ann is so wonderful.
She has the most remarkable character--so deep and tenderly true for
such a mite."

"Suppose, Betty--suppose Con notices the likeness!"

At this Betty smiled reassuringly.

"He won't. Men are so stupidly humble. A pretty little girl would escape
them every time."

"But her Southern accent, Betty. It is so pronounced."

"My dear Lyn, it is! She sometimes talks like a little darkey; but to my
certain knowledge there are ten small Southerners at the Saxe, of
assorted ages and sexes, waiting for adoption."

"And she may speak out, Betty. Her silence as to the past will disappear
when she has got over her fear and longing."

Betty looked more serious. "I doubt it. Not a word has passed her lips
here--of her mother or home. It has amazed me. She's the most unusual,
the most fascinating creature I ever saw, for her age. Brace is wild
about her--he wants me to keep her. But, Lyn, if she does break her
strange silence, it will be your big hour! Whatever Con is or isn't--and
sometimes I feel like hugging him, and again, like shaking him--he's
the tenderest man with women--not even excepting Brace--that I have ever
seen. It never has occurred to him to reason out how much you love
him--he's too busy loving you. But when he finds this out! Well, Lyn, it
makes me bow my head and speak low."

"Don't, Betty! Don't suggest pedestals again," Lynda pleaded.

"No pedestal, Lyn; no pedestal--but the real, splendid _you_ revealed at
last! And now--forget it, dear. Here comes lil' Ann."

The child tiptoed in with outstretched arms.

"The nest is made right soft," she whispered, "and now let me carry
Bobilink to--to the sleepy dreams."

"Where did you learn to carry babies?" Betty hazarded, testing the
silence. The small, dark face clouded; the fear-look crept to the large
eyes.

"I--I don't know," was the only reply, and Ann turned away--this time
toward Lynda!

"And suppose he never knows?" Lynda spoke with her lips pressed to Ann's
soft hair--the child was in her arms.

"Then you and Con will have something to begin heaven with." Betty's
eyes were wet. "We all have something we don't talk about much on
earth--we do not dare. Brace and I have our--baby!"

Two days later Lynda took Ann home. They went shopping first and the
child was dazzlingly excited. She forgot her restraint and shyness in
the fascinating delirium of telling what she wanted with a pretty sure
belief that she would get it. No wonder that she was taken out of
herself and broke upon Truedale's astonished gaze as quite a different
child from the one Lynda had described.

The brilliant little thing came into the hall with Lynda, her arms
filled with packages too precious to be consigned to other hands; her
eyes were dancing and her voice thrilling with happiness.

"And now I'll call you muvver-Lyn 'cause you're mighty kind and this is
your house! It's a right fine house."

Truedale had well timed his return home. He was ready to greet the two
in the library. The prattling voice charmed him with its delightful
mellowness and he went forward gladly to meet Lynda and the new little
child. Ann was ahead; Lynda fell back and, with fast-throbbing heart
waited by the doorway.

Ann had had a week and more of Brace Kendall to wipe away the impression
Burke Lawson had imprinted upon her mind. But she was shy of men and
weighed them carefully before showing favours. She stood still when she
saw Truedale; she dropped, unheeded, a package; she stared at him, while
he waited with extended hands. Then slowly--as if drawn against her
will--Ann advanced and laid her hands in his.

"So this is the little girl who has come to help us make Christmas?"

"Yes." Still that fixed look. It seemed to Lynda the most unnatural
thing she had ever seen. And oh! how alike the two were, now that they
were together!

"You are little Ann and you are going to play with"--Truedale looked
toward Lynda and drew her to him by the love in his eyes--"You are going
to play with us, and you will call us mother and father, won't you,
little Ann?" He meant to do his part in full. He would withhold nothing,
now that Lynda had decided to take this step.

"Yes."

"And do you suppose you could kiss me--to begin with?"

Quaintly the child lifted herself on her toes--Truedale was half
kneeling before her--and gave him a lingering kiss.

"We're going to be great friends, eh, little Ann?" Truedale was pleased,
Lynda saw that. The little girl was making a deep impression.

"Yes." Then--deliberately: "Shall I have to teach you to be a father?"

"What does she mean?" Truedale looked at Lynda who explained Betty's
charming foolery.

"I see. Well, yes, Ann, you must teach me to be a father."

And so they began their lives together. And after a few days Lynda saw
that during the child's stay with Betty the crust of sullen reserve had
departed--the little creature was the merriest, sweetest thing
imaginable, once she could forget herself. Protected, cared for, and
considered, she developed marvellously and soon seemed to have been with
them years instead of days. The impression was almost startling and both
Lynda and Truedale remarked upon it.

"There are certain things she does that appear always to have been
waiting for her to do," Conning said, "it makes her very charming. She
brushes the dogs and cats regularly, and she's begun to pick up books
and papers in my den in a most alarming way--but she always manages to
know where they belong."

"That's uncanny," Lynda ventured; "but she certainly has fitted in,
bless her heart!"

There had been moments at first when Lynda feared that Thomas would
remember the child, but the old eyes could hardly be expected to
recognize, in the dainty little girl, the small, patched, and soiled
stranger of the annoying visit. Many times had Thomas explained and
apologized for the admittance of the two "forlornities," as he called
them.

No, everything seemed mercifully blurred; and Ann, in her new home,
apparently forgot everything that lay behind her. She never even asked
to go back to Betty's though she welcomed Betty, Brace, and Bobbie with
flattering joy whenever they came to visit. She learned to be very fond
of Lynda--was often sweetly affectionate with her; but in the wonderful
home, her very own, waited upon and cared for, it was Conning who most
appealed to her. For him she watched and waited at the close of day, and
if she were out with Lynda she became nervous and worried if they were
delayed as darkness crept on.

"I want father to see me waiting," she would urge; "I like to see his
gladness."

"And so do I!" Lynda would say, struggling to overcome the unworthy
resentment that occasionally got the better of her when the child too
fervently appropriated Conning.

But this trait of Ann's flattered and delighted Truedale; often he was
amused, but he knew that it was the one thing above all else in the
little girl that endeared her to him.

"What a darling she is!" he often said to Lynda when they were alone
together. "Is she ever naughty?"

"Yes, often--the monkey!"

"I'm glad to hear it. I hate a flabby youngster. Does she ever speak of
her little past, Lyn?"

"Never."

"Isn't that strange?"

"Yes, but I'm glad she doesn't. I want her to forget. She's very happy
with us--but she's far from perfect." "To what form of cussedness does
she tend, Lyn? With me she's as lamblike as can be."

"Oh! she has a fiery temper and, now that I think of it, she generally
shows it in reference to you."

"To me?" Truedale smiled.

"Yes. Thomas found her blacking your shoes the other day. She was making
an awful mess of it and he tried to take them from her. She gave him a
real vicious whack with the brush. What she said was actually comical:
'He's mine; if I want to take the dirt from his shoes, I can. He
_shan't_ walk on dirt--and he's mine!'"

"The little rascal. And what did Thomas do?"

"Oh! he let her. People always let her. I do myself."

"She's a fascinating kid," Truedale said with a laugh. Then, very
earnestly: "I'm rather glad we do not know her antecedents, Lyn; it's
safer to take her as we find her and build on that. But I'd be willing
to risk a good deal that much love and goodness are back of little Ann,
no matter how much else got twisted in. And the love and goodness must
be her passport through life."

"Yes, Con, and they are all that are worth while."

But every change was a period of struggle to Ann and those who dealt
with her. She had a passionate power of attachment to places and people,
and readjustment caused her pain and unrest.

When school was considered, it almost made her ill. She clung to
Truedale and implored him not to make her go away.

"But it's only for the day time, Ann," he explained, "and you will have
children to play with--little girls like yourself."

"No; no! I don't want children--only Bobbie! I only want my folks!"

Lynda came to her defense.

"Con, we'll have a governess for a year or so."

"Is it wise, Lyn, to give way to her?"

"Yes, it is!" Ann burst in; "it is wise, I'd die if I had to go."

So she had a governess and made gratifying strides in learning. The
trait that was noticeable in the child was that she developed and
thrived most when not opposed. She wilted mentally and physically when
forced. She had a most unusual power of winning and holding love, and
under a shy and gentle exterior there were passion and strength that at
times were pathetic. While not a robust child she was generally well and
as time passed she gained in vigour. Once, and once only, was she
seriously ill, and that was when she had been with Truedale and Lynda
about two years. During all that time, as far as they knew, she had
never referred to the past and both believed that, for her, it was dead;
but when weakness and fever loosened the unchildlike control, something
occurred that alarmed Lynda, but broke down forever the thin barrier
that, for all her effort, had existed between her and Ann. She was
sitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenly
the little hot hands reached up passionately, and the name "mother"
quivered on the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda's ears. She bent
close.

"What, little Ann?" she whispered.

The big, burning eyes looked puzzled. Then: "Take me to--to the
Hollow--to Miss Lois Ann!"

"Sh!" panted Lynda, every nerve tingling. "See, little Ann--don't you
know me?"

The child seemed to half understand and moaned plaintively:

"I'm lost! I'm lost!"

Lynda took her in her arms and the sick fancy passed, but from that hour
there was a new tie between the two--a deeper dependence.

There was one day when they all felt little Ann was slipping from them.
Dr. McPherson had come as near giving up hope as he ever, outwardly,
permitted himself to do.

"You had better stay at home," he said to Conning; "children are
skittish little craft. The best of them haul up anchor sometimes when
you least expect it."

So Truedale remained at home and, wandering through the quiet house,
wondered at the intensity of his suffering as he contemplated the time
on ahead without the child who had so recently come into his life from
he knew not where. He attributed it all to Ann's remarkable
characteristics.

Late in the afternoon of the anxious day he went into the sick room and
leaned over the bed. Ann opened her eyes and smiled up at him, weakly.

"Make a light, father," she whispered, and with a fear-filled heart
Truedale touched the electric button. The room was already filled with
sunlight, for it faced the west; but for Ann it was cold and dark.

Then, as if setting the last pitiful scene for her own departure, she
turned to Lynda: "Make a mother-lap for Ann," she said. Lynda tenderly
lifted the thin form from the bed and held it close.

"I--I taught you how to be a mother, didn't I, mommy-Lyn?" she had never
called Lynda simply "mother," while "father" had fallen naturally from
her lips.

"Yes, yes, little Ann." Lynda's eyes were filled with tears and in that
moment she realized how much the child meant to her. She had done her
duty, had exceeded it at times, in her determination not to fall short.
She had humoured Ann, often taking sides against Conning in her fear of
being unjust. But oh! there had always been something lacking; and now,
too late, she felt that, for all her struggle, she had not been true to
the vow she had made to Nella-Rose!

But Ann was gazing up at her with a strange, penetrating look.

"It's the comfiest lap in the world," she faltered, "for little, tired
girls."

"I--I love her!" Lynda gazed up at Truedale as if confessing and, at the
end, seeking forgiveness.

"Of course you do!" he comforted, "but--be brave, Lyn!" He feared to
excite Ann. Then the weary eyes of the child turned to him.

"Mommy-Lyn does love me!" the weak voice was barely audible; "she does,
father, she does!"

It was like a confirmation--a recognition of something beautiful and
sacred.

"I felt," Lynda said afterward to Betty, "as if she were not only
telling Con, but God, too. I had not deserved it--but it made up for all
the hard struggle, and swept everything before it."

But Ann did not die. Slowly, almost hesitatingly, she turned back to
them and brought a new power with her. She, apparently, left her baby
looks and nature in the shadowy place from which she had escaped. Once
health came to her, she was the merriest of merry children--almost noisy
at times--in the rollicking fashion of Betty's irrepressible Bobilink.
And the haunting likeness to Truedale was gone. For a year or two the
lean, thready little girl looked like no one but her own elfish self;
and then--it was like a revealment--she grew to be like Nella-Rose!

Lynda, at times, was breathless as she looked and remembered. She had
seen the mother only once; but that hour had burned the image of face,
form, and action into her soul. She recalled, too, Conning's graphic
description of his first meeting with Nella-Rose. The quaint, dramatic
power that had marked Ann's mother, now developed in the little
daughter. She had almost entirely lost the lingering manner of
speech--the Southern expressions and words--but she was as different
from the children with whom she mingled as she had ever been.

When she was strong enough she resumed her studies with the governess
and also began music. This she enjoyed with the passion that marked her
attitude toward any person or thing she loved.

"Oh, it lets something in me, free!" she confided to Truedale. "I shall
never be naughty or unkind again--I wouldn't dare!"

"Why?" Conning was no devotee of music and was puzzled by Ann's
intensity.

"Why," she replied, puckering her brows in the effort to make herself
clear, "I--I wouldn't be worthy of--of the beautiful music, if I were
horrid."

Truedale laughed and patted her pretty cropped head, over which the new
little curls were clustering.

Life in the old house was full and rich at that time. Conning was, as he
often said, respectably busy and important enough in the affairs of men
to be content; he would never be one who enjoyed personal power.

Lynda, during Ann's first years, had taken a partner who attended to
interviews, conferences, and contracts; but in the room over the
extension the creative work went on with unabated interest. Little Ann
soon learned to love the place and had her tiny chair beside the hearth
or table. There she learned the lessons of consideration for others, and
self-control.

"If the day comes," Lynda told Betty, "when my work interferes with my
duty to Con and Ann, it will go! But more and more I am inclined to
think that the interference is a matter of choice. I prefer my
profession to--well, other things."

"Of course," Betty agreed; "women should not be forever coddling their
offspring, and when they learn to call things by their right names and
develop some initiative, they won't whine so much."

Lynda and Truedale had sadly abandoned the hope of children of their
own. It was harder for Lynda than for Con, but she accepted what seemed
her fate and thanked heaven anew for little Ann and the sure sense that
she could love her without reserve.

And then, after the years of change and readjustment, Lynda's boy was
born! He seemed to crown everything with a sacred meaning. Not without
great fear and doubt did Lynda go down into the shadow; not without an
agony of apprehension did Truedale go with her to the boundary over
which she must pass alone to accept what God had in store for her. They
remembered with sudden and sharp anxiety the peril that Betty had
endured, though neither spoke of it; and always they smiled courageously
when most their hearts failed.

Then came the black hours of suffering and doubt. A wild storm was
beating outside and Truedale, hearing it, wondered whether all the great
events of his life were to be attended by those outbursts of nature. He
walked the floor of his room or hung over Lynda's bed, and at midnight,
when she no longer knew him or could soothe him by her brave smile, he
went wretchedly away and upon the dim landing of the stairs came upon
Ann, crouching white and haggard.

His nerves were at the breaking point and he spoke sharply.

"Why are you not in bed?" he asked.

"While--mommy-Lyn is--in--there?" gasped the girl, turning reproachful
eyes up to him. "How--could I?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Always; always!"

"Ann, you must go to your room at once! Come, I will go with you." She
rose and took his hand. There was fear in her eyes.

"Is--is mommy-Lyn--" she faltered, and Truedale understood.

"Good God!--no!" he replied; "not that!"

"I was to--to stay close to you." Ann was trembling as she walked
beside him. "She gave you--to me! She gave you to me--to keep for her!"

Truedale stopped short and looked at Ann. Confusedly he grasped the
meaning of the tie that held this child to Lynda--that held them all to
the strong, loving woman who was making her fight with death, for a
life.

"Little Ann," was all he could say, but he bent and kissed the child
solemnly.

When morning dawned, Lynda came back--bringing her little son with her.
God had spoken!

Truedale, sitting beside her, one hand upon the downy head that had
nearly cost so much, saw the mother-lips move.

"You--want--the baby?" he asked.

"I--I want little Ann." Then the white lids fell, shutting away the weak
tears.

"Lyn, the darling has been waiting outside your door all night--I
imagine she is there now."

"Yes, I know. I want her."

"Are you able--just now, dear?"

"I--must have little Ann."

So Ann came. She was white--very much awed; but she smiled. Lynda did
not open her eyes at once; she was trying to get back some of the old
self-control that had been so mercilessly shattered during the hours of
her struggle, but presently she looked up.

"You--kept your word, Ann," she said. Then: "You--you made a place for
my baby. Little Ann--kiss your--brother."

They named the baby for William Truedale and they called him Billy, in
deference to his pretty baby ways.

"He must be Uncle William's representative," said Lynda, "as Bobbie is
the representative of Betty's little dead boy."

"I often think of--the money, Lyn." Truedale spoke slowly and seriously.
"How I hated it; how I tried to get rid of it! But when it is used
rightly it seems to secure dignity for itself. I've learned to respect
it, and I want our boy to respect it also. I want to put it on a firm
foundation and make it part of Billy's equipment--a big trust for which
he must be trained."

"I think I would like his training to precede his knowledge of the money
as far as possible," Lynda replied. "I'd like him to put up a bit of a
fight--as his father did before him."

"As his father did _not_!" Truedale's eyes grew gloomy. "I'm afraid,
Lyn, I'm constructed on the modelling plan--added to, built up. Some
fellows are chiselled out. I wonder--about little Billy."

"Somehow"--Lynda gave a little contented smile--"I am not afraid for
Billy. But I would not take the glory of conflict from him--no! not for
all Uncle William's money! He must do his part in the world and find
his place--not the place others may choose for him."

"You're going to be sterner with him than you are with Ann, aren't you,
Lyn?" Truedale meant this lightly, but Lynda looked serious.

"I shall be able to, Con, for Billy brought something with him that Ann
had to find."

"I see--I see! That's where a mother comes in strong, my dear."

"Oh! Con, it's where she comes in with fear and trembling--but with an
awful comprehension."

This "comprehension" of the responsibilities of maternity worked forward
and backward with Lynda much to Truedale's secret amusement. Confident
of her duty to her son, she interpreted her duty to Ann. While Billy,
red-faced and roving-eyed, gurgled or howled in his extreme youth, Lynda
retraced her steps and commandingly repaired some damages in her
treatment of Ann.

"Ann," she said one day, "you must go to school."

"Why?" Ann naturally asked. She was a conscientious little student and
extremely happy with the governess who came daily to instruct her.

"You study and learn splendidly, Ann, but you must have--have children
in your life. You'll be queer."

"I've got Bobbie, and now Billy."

"Ann, do not argue. When Billy is old enough to go to school he is
going, without a word! I've been too weak with you, Ann--you'll
understand by and by."

The new tone quelled any desire on Ann's part to insist further; she was
rather awed by this attitude. So, with a lofty, detached air Miss Ann
went to school. At first she imbibed knowledge under protest, much as
she might have eaten food she disliked but which she believed was good
for her. Then certain aspects of the new experience attracted and
awakened her. From the mass of things she ought to know, she clutched at
things she wanted to know. From the girls who shared her school hours,
she selected congenial spirits and worshipped them, while the others,
for her, did not exist.

"She's so intense," sighed Lynda; "she's just courting suffering. She
lavishes everything on them she loves and grieves like one without hope
when things go against her."

"She's the most dramatic little imp." Truedale laughed reminiscently as
he spoke--he had seen Ann in two or three school performances. "I
shouldn't wonder if she had genius."

Betty looked serious when she heard this. "I hope not!" was all she
said, and from then on she watched Ann with brooding eyes; she urged
Lynda to keep her much out of doors in the companionship of Bobbie and
Billy who were normal to a relieving extent. Ann played and enjoyed the
babies--she adored Billy and permitted him to rule over her with no
light hand--but when she could, she read poetry and talked of strange,
imaginative things with the few girls in whose presence she became rapt
and reverent.

Brace was the only one who took Ann as a joke.

"She's working out her fool ideas, young," he comforted; "let her alone.
A boy would go behind some barn and smoke and revel in the idea that he
was a devil of a fellow. Annie"--he, alone, called her that--"Annie is
smoking her tobacco behind her little barns. She'll get good and sick of
it. Let her learn her lesson."

"That's right," Betty admitted, "girls ought to learn, just as boys
do--but if I ever find _Bobbie_ smoking--"

"What will you do to him, Betty?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but I _do_ know I'd insist upon his coming from
behind barns."

And that led them all to consider Ann from the barn standpoint. If she
wanted the tragic and sombre she should have it--in the sunlight and
surrounded with love. So she no longer was obliged to depend on the
queer little girls who fluttered like blind bats in the crude of their
adolescent years. Lynda, Betty, Truedale, and Brace read bloodcurdling
horrors to her and took her to plays--the best. And they wedged in a
deal of wholesome, commonplace fun that presently awoke a response and
developed a sense of humour that gave them all a belief that the worst
was past.

"She has forgotten everything that lies back of her sickness," Lynda
once said to Betty; "it's strange, but she appears to have begun from
that."

Then Betty made a remark that Lynda recalled afterward:

"I don't believe she has, Lyn. I'm not worried about Ann as you and Con
are. Her Lady Macbeth pose is just plain girl; but she has depths we
have never sounded. Sometimes I think she hides them to prove her
gratitude and affection, and because she is so helpless. She was nearly
five when she came to you, Lyn, and I believe she does remember the
hills and her mother!"

"Why, Betty, what makes you think this?" Lynda was appalled.

"It is her eyes. There are moments when she is looking back--far back.
She is trying to hold to something that is escaping her. Love her, Lyn,
love her as you never have before."

"If I thought that, Betty!" Lynda was aghast. "Oh! Betty--the poor
darling! I cannot believe she could be so strong--so--terrible."

"It's more or less subconscious--such things always are--but I think Ann
will some day prove what I say. In a way, it's like the feeling I have
for--for my own baby, Lyn. I see him in Bobbie; I feel him in Bobbie's
dearness and naughtiness. Ann holds what went before in what is around
her now. Sometimes it puzzles her as Bobbie puzzles me."

About this time--probably because he was happier than he had ever been
before, possibly because he had more time that he could conscientiously
call his own than he had had for many a well-spent year--Truedale
repaired to his room under the eaves, sneaking away, with a half-guilty
longing, to his old play! So many times had he resurrected it, then cast
it aside; so many hopes and fears had been born and killed by the
interruption to his work, that he feared whatever strength it might once
have had must be gone now forever.

Still he retreated to his attic room once more--and Lynda asked no
questions. With strange understanding Ann guarded that door like a
veritable dragon. When Billy's toddling steps followed his father Ann
waylaid him; and many were the swift, silent struggles near the portal
before the rampant Billy was carried away kicking with Ann's firm hand
stifling his outraged cries.

"What Daddy doing there?" Billy would demand when once conquered.

"That's nobody's business but Daddy's," Ann unrelentingly insisted.

"I--I want to know!" Billy pleaded.

"Wait until Daddy wants you to know."

Under the eaves, hope grew in Truedale's heart. The old play had
certainly the subtle human interest that is always vital. He was sure of
that. Once, he almost decided to take Ann into his confidence. The child
had such a dramatic sense. Then he laughed. It was absurd, of course!

No! if the thing ever amounted to anything--if, by putting flesh upon
the dry bones and blood into the veins, he could get it over--it was to
be his gift to Lynda! And the only thing that encouraged him as he
worked, rather stiffly after all the years, was the certainty that at
times he heard the heart beat in the shrunken and shrivelled thing! And
so--he reverently worked on.




CHAPTER XXII


Among the notes and suggestions sprinkled through the old manuscript
were lines that once had aroused the sick and bitter resentment of
Truedale in the past:

  "Thy story hath been written long since.
  Thy part is to read and interpret."

Over and over again he read the words and pondered upon his own change
of mind. Youth, no matter how lean and beggared it may be, craves and
insists upon conflict--upon the personal loss and gain. But as time
takes one into its secrets, the soul gets the wider--Truedale now was
sure it was the wider--outlook. Having fought--because the fight was
part of the written story--the craving for victory, of the lesser sort,
dwindled, while the higher call made its appeal. To be part of the
universal; to look back upon the steps that led up, or even down, and
hold the firm belief that here, or elsewhere--what mattered in the
mighty chain of many links--the "interpretation" told!

Truedale came to the conclusion that fatalism was no weak and spineless
philosophy, but one for the making of strong souls.

Failure, even wrong, might they not, if unfettered by the narrow
limitations of here and now, prove miracle-working elements?

Then the effect upon others entered into Truedale's musings as it had in
the beginning. The "stories" of others! He leaned his head at this
juncture upon his clasped hands and thought of Nella-Rose! Thought of
her as he always did--tenderly, gently, but as holding no actual part in
his real life. She was like something that had gained power over an
errant and unbridled phase of his past existence. He could not make her
real in the sense of the reality of the men, women, and affairs that now
sternly moulded and commanded him. She was--she always would be to
him--a memory of something lovely, dear, but elusive. He could no longer
place and fix her. She belonged to that strange period of his life when,
in the process of finding himself, he had blindly plunged forward
without stopping to count the cost or waiting for clear-sightedness.

"What has she become?" he thought, sitting apart with his secret work.
And then most fervently he hoped that what Lynda had once suggested
might indeed be true. He prayed, as such men do pray, that the
experience which had enabled him to understand himself and life better
might also have given Nella-Rose a wider, freer space in which to play
her chosen part.

He recalled his knowledge of the hill-women as Jim White had described
them--women to whom love, in its brightest aspect, is denied. Surely
Nella-Rose had caught a glimpse more radiant than they. Had it pointed
her to the heaven of good women--or--?

And eventually this theme held and swayed the play--this effect of a
deep love upon such a nature as Nella-Rose's, the propelling power--the
redeeming and strengthening influence. In the end Truedale called his
work "The Interpretation."

And while this was going on behind the attic door, a seemingly slight
incident had the effect of reinforcing Truedale's growing belief in his
philosophy.

He and Lynda went one day to the studio of a sculptor who had suddenly
come into fame because of a wonderful figure, half human, half divine,
that had startled the sophisticated critics out of their usual calm.

The man had done much good work before, but nothing remarkable; he had
taken his years of labour with patient courage, insisting that they were
but preparation. He had half starved in the beginning--had gradually
made his way to what every one believed was a mediocre standstill; but
he kept his faith and his cheerful outlook, and then--he quietly
presented the remarkable figure that demanded recognition and
appreciation.

The artist had sold his masterpiece for a sum that might reasonably have
caused some excitement in his life--but it had not!

"I'm sorry I let the thing go," he confided to a chosen few; "come and
help me bid it good-bye."

Lynda and Conning were among the chosen, and upon the afternoon of their
call they happened to be alone with him in the studio.

All other pieces of work had been put away; the figure, in the best
possible light, stood alone; and the master, in the most impersonal way,
stood guard over it with reverent touch and hushed voice.

Had his attitude been a pose it would have been ridiculous; but it was
so detached, so sincere, so absolutely humble, that it rose to the
height of dignified simplicity.

"Thornton, where did you get your inspiration--your model?" Truedale
asked, after the beauty of the thing had sunk into his heart.

"In the clay. Such things are always in the clay," was the quiet reply.

Lynda was deeply moved, not only by the statue, but by its creator.
"Tell us, please," she said earnestly, "just what you mean. I think it
will help us to understand."

Thornton gave a nervous laugh. He was a shy, retiring man but he thought
now only of this thing he had been permitted to portray.

"I always"--he began hesitatingly--"take my plaster in big lumps,
squeeze it haphazard, and then sit and look at it. After that, it is a
mere matter of choice and labour and--determination. When this"--he
raised his calm eyes to the figure--"came to me--in the clay--I saw it
as plainly as I see it now. I couldn't forget, or, if I did, I began
again. Sometimes, I confess, I got weird results as I worked; once,
after three days of toil, a--a devil was evolved. It wasn't bad, either,
I almost decided to--to keep it; but soon again I caught a glimpse of
the vision, always lurking close. So I pinched and smoothed off and
added to, and, in the end, the vision stayed. It was in the
clay--everything is, with me. If I cannot see it there, I might as well
give up."

"Thornton, that's why you never lost courage!" Truedale exclaimed.

"Yes, that's the reason, old man."

Lynda came close. "Thank you," she said with deep feeling in her voice,
"I do understand; I thought I would if you explained, and--I think your
method is--Godlike!"

Thornton flushed and laughed. "Hardly that," he returned, "it's merely
my way and I have to take it."

It was late summer when Truedale completed the play. Lynda and the
children were away; the city was hot and comparatively empty. It was a
time when no manager wanted to look at manuscripts, but if one was
forced upon him, he would have more leisure to examine it than he would
have later on.

Taking advantage of this, Truedale--anxious but strangely
insistent--fought his way past the men hired to defeat such a course,
and got into the presence of a manager whose opinion he could trust.

After much argument--and the heat was terrific--the great man promised,
in order to rid himself of Truedale's presence, to read the stuff. He
hadn't the slightest intention of doing so, and meant to start it on its
downward way back to the author as soon as the proper person--in short
his private secretary--came home from his vacation.

But that evening an actress who was fine enough and charmingly
temperamental enough to compel attention, bore down through the heat
upon the manager, with the appalling declaration that she was tired to
death of the part selected for her in her play, and would have none of
it!

"But good Lord!" cried the manager, fanning himself with his
panama--they were at a roof garden restaurant--"this is August--and you
go on in October."

"Not as a depraved and sensual woman, Mr. Camden; I want to be for once
in my life a character that women can remember without blushing."

"But, my poor child, that's your splendid art. You are a--an
angel-woman, but you can play a she-devil like an inspired creature. You
don't mean that you seriously contemplate ruining _my_ reputation and
your own--by--"

"I mean," said the angel-woman, sipping her sauterne, "that I don't care
a flip for your reputation or mine--the weather's too hot--but I'm not
going to trail through another slimy play! No; I'll go into the movies
first!"

Camden twisted his collar; he felt as if he were choking. "Heaven
forbid!" was all he could manage.

"I want woods and the open! I want a character with a little, twisted,
unawakened soul to be unsnarled and made to behave itself. I don't mind
being a bit naughty--if I can be spanked into decorum. But when the
curtain goes down on my next play, Camden, the women are going out of
the theatre with a kind thought of me, not throbbing with
disapproval--good women, I mean!"

And then, because Camden was a bit of a sentimentalist with a good deal
of superstition tangled in his make-up, he took Truedale's play out of
his pocket--it had been spoiling the set of his coat all the
evening--and spread it out on the table that was cleared now of all but
the coffee and the cigarettes which the angel-woman--Camden did not
smoke--was puffing luxuriously.

"Here's some rot that a fellow managed to drop on me to-day. I didn't
mean to undo it, but if it has an out-of-door setting, I'll give it a
glance!"

"Has it?" asked the angel, watching the perspiring face of Camden.

"It has! Big open. Hills--expensive open."

"Is it rot?"

"Umph--listen to this!" Camden's sharp eye lighted on a vivid sentence
or two. "Not the usual type of villain--and the girl is rather unique.
Up to tricks with her eyes shut. I wonder how she'll pan out?" Camden
turned the pages rapidly, overlooking some of Con's best work, but
getting what he, himself, was after.

"By Jove! she doesn't do it!"

"What--push those matches this way--what doesn't she do?" asked the
angel.

"Eternally damn the man and claim her sex privilege of unwarranted
righteousness!"

"Does she damn herself--like an idiot?" The angel was interested.

"She does not! She plays her own little role by the music of the
experience she lived through. It's not bad, by the lord Harry! It's got
to be tinkered--and painted up--but it's original. Just look it over."

Truedale's play was pushed across the table and the angel-woman seized
upon it. The taste Camden had given her--like caviar--sharpened her
appetite. She read on in the swift, skipping fashion that would have
crushed an author's hopes, but which grasped the high lights and caught
the deep tones. Then the woman looked up and there were genuine tears in
her eyes.

"The little brick!" said the voice of loveliness and thrills, "the
splendid little trump! Why, Camden, she had her ideals--real, fresh,
woman-ideals--not the ideals plastered on us women by men, who would
loathe them for themselves! She just picked up the scraps of her damaged
little affairs and went, without a whimper, to the doing of the only job
she could ever hope to succeed in. And she let the man-who-learned go!
Gee! but that was a big decision. She might so easily have muddled the
whole scheme of things, but she didn't! The dear, little, scrimpy,
patched darling.

"Oh! Camden, I want to be that girl for as long a run as you can force.
After the first few weeks you won't have to bribe folks to come--it'll
take hold, after they have got rid of bad tastes in their mouths and
have found out what we're up to! Don't count the cost, Camden. This is a
chance for civic virtue."

"Do you want more cigarettes, my dear?"

"No. I've smoked enough."

Camden drew the manuscript toward him. "It's a damned rough diamond," he
murmured.

"But you and I know it is a diamond, don't we, Camby?"

"Well, it sparkles--here and there."

"And it mustn't be ruined in the cutting and setting, must it?" The
angel was wearing her most devout and flattering expression. She was
handling her man with inspired touch.

"Umph! Well, no. The thing needs a master hand; no doubt of that. But
good Lord! think of the cost. This out-of-door stuff costs like all
creation. Your gowns will let you out easy--you can economize on _this_
engagement--but have a heart and think of me!"

"I--I do think of you, Camby. You know as well as I that New York is at
your beck and call. What you say--goes! Call them now to see something
that will make them sure the world isn't going to the devil, Camden. In
this scene"--and here the woman pulled the manuscript back--"when that
little queen totes her heavy but sanctified heart up the trail, men and
women will shed tears that will do them good--tears that will make them
see plain duty clearer. Men and--yes, women, too, Camby--_want_ to be
decent, only they've lost the way. This will help them to find it!"

"We've got to have two strong men." Camden dared not look at the
pleading face opposite. But something was already making him agree with
it.

"And, by heavens, I don't know of but one who isn't taken."

"There's a boy--he's only had minor parts so far--but I want him for the
man-who-learned-his-lesson. You can give the big wood-giant to John
Harrington--I heard to-day that he was drifting, up to date--but I want
Timmy Nichols for the other part."

"Nichols? Thunder! He's only done--what in the dickens has he done? I
remember him, but I can't recall his parts."

"That's it! That's it! Now I want him to drive his part home--with
himself!"

Camden looked across at the vivid young face that a brief but brilliant
career had not ruined.

"I begin to understand," he muttered.

"Do you, Camden? Well, I'm only beginning to understand myself!"

"Together, you'll be corking!" Camden suddenly grew enthusiastic.

"Won't we? And he did so hate to have me slimy. No one but Timmy and my
mother ever cared!"

"We'll have this--this fellow who wrote the play--what's his name?"

"Truedale." The woman referred to the manuscript.

"Yes. Truedale. We'll have him to dinner to-morrow. I'll get Harrington
and Nichols. Where shall we go?"

"There's a love of a place over on the East Side. They give you such
good things to eat--and leave you alone."

"We'll go there!"

It was November before the rush and hurry of preparation were over and
Truedale's play announced. His name did not appear on it so his people
were not nerve-torn and desperate. Truedale often was, but he managed to
hide the worst and suffer in silence. He had outlived the anguish of
seeing his offspring amputated, ripped open, and stuffed. He had come to
the point where he could hear his sacredest expressions denounced as rot
and supplanted by others that made him mentally ill. But in the end he
acknowledged, nerve-racked as he was, that the thing of which he had
dreamed--the thing he had tried to do--remained intact. His eyes were
moist when the curtain fell upon his "Interpretation" at the final
rehearsal.

Then he turned his attention to his personal drama. He chose his box;
there were to be Lynda and Ann, Brace and Betty, McPherson and himself
in it. Betty, Brace, and the doctor were to have the three front
chairs--not because of undue humility on the author's part, but because
there would, of course, be a big moment of revelation--a moment when
Lynda would know! When that came it would be better to be where curious
eyes could not behold them. Perhaps--Truedale was a bit anxious over
this--perhaps he might have to take Lynda away after the first act, and
before the second began, in order to give her time and opportunity to
rally her splendid serenity.

And after the play was over--after he knew how the audience had taken
it--there was to be a small supper--just the six of them--and during
that he would confess, for better or worse. He would revel in their joy,
if success were his, or lean upon their sympathy if Fate proved unkind.

Truedale selected the restaurant, arranged for the flowers, and then
grew so rigidly quiet and pale that Lynda declared that the summer in
town had all but killed him and insisted that he take a vacation.

"We haven't had our annual honeymoon trip, Con," she pleaded; "let's
take it now."

"We'll--we'll go, Lyn, just before Christmas."

"Not much!" Lynda tossed her head. "It will take our united efforts from
December first until after Christmas to meet the demands of Billy and
Ann."

"But, Lyn, the theatre season has just opened--and--"

"Don't be a silly, Con. What do we care for that? Besides, we can go to
some place where there are theatres. It's too cold to go into the
wilds."

"But New York is _the_ place, Lyn."

"Con, I never saw you so obstinate and frivolous. Why, you're thin and
pale, and you worry me. I will never leave you again during the summer.
Ann was edgy about it this year. She told me once that she felt all the
hotness you were suffering. I believe she did! _Now_ will you come away
for a month?"

"I--I cannot, Lyn."

"For two weeks, then? One?"

"Darling, after next week, yes! For a week or ten days."

"Good old Con! Always so reasonable and--kind," Lynda lifted her happy
face to his....

But things did not happen as Truedale arranged--not all of them. There
was a brief tussle, the opening night of the play, with McPherson. He
didn't see why he should be obliged to sit in the front row.

"I'm too tall and fat!" he protested; "it's like putting me on
exhibition. Besides, my dress suit is too small for me and my
shirt-front bulges and--and I'm not pretty. Put the women in front,
Truedale. What ails you, anyway?"

Conning was desperate. For a moment it looked as if the burly doctor
were going to defeat everything.

"I hate plays, you know!" McPherson was mumbling; "why didn't you bring
us to a musical comedy or vaudeville? Lord! but it's hot here."

Betty, watching Truedale's exasperated face, came to his assistance.

"When at a party you're asked whether you will have tea or coffee, Dr.
McPherson," she said, tugging at his huge arm, "you mustn't say
'chocolate,' it isn't polite. If Con wants to mix up the sexes he has a
perfect right to, after he's ruined himself buying this box. Do sit down
beside me, doctor. When the audience looks at my perfectly beautiful
new gown they'll forget your reputation and shirt-front."

So, muttering and frowning, McPherson sat down beside Betty, and Brace
in lamblike mood dropped beside him.

"It's wicked," McPherson turned once more; "I don't believe Ann can see
a thing."

"Yes, I can, Dr. McPherson--if you keep put! I want to sit between
father and mommy-Lyn. When I thrill, I have to have near me some one
particular, to hold on to."

"You ought to be in bed!"

Little Ann leaned against his shoulder. "Don't be grumpy," she
whispered, "I like you best of all--when you're not the doctor."

"Umph!" grunted McPherson, but he stayed "put" after that, until the
curtain went down on the first act. Then he turned to Truedale. He had
been laughing until the tears stood in his eyes.

"Did that big woodsman make you think of any one?" he asked.

"Did he remind _you_ of any one?" Truedale returned. He was weak with
excitement. Lynda, sitting beside him, was almost as white as the gown
she wore--for she had remembered the old play!

"He's enough like old Jim White to be his twin! I haven't laughed so
much in a month. I feel as if I'd had a vacation in the hills."

Then the curtain went up on the big scene! Camden had spared no
expense. That was his way. The audience broke into appreciative applause
as it gazed at the realistic reproduction of deep woods, dim trails, and
a sky of gold. It was an empty stage--a waiting moment!

In the first act the characters had been more or less subservient to the
big honest sheriff, with his knowledge of the people and his amazing
interpretation of justice. He had been so wise--so deliciously
anarchistic--that the real motive of the play had only begun to appear.
But now into the beautiful, lonely woods the woman came! The shabby,
radiant little creature with her tremendous problem yet to solve.
Through the act she rose higher, clearer; she won sympathy, she revealed
herself; and, at the end, she faced her audience with an appeal that was
successful to the last degree.

In short, she had got Truedale's play over the footlights! He knew it;
every one knew it. And when the climax came and the decision was
made--leaving the man-who-had-learned-his-lesson unaware of the divine
renunciation but strong enough to take up his life clear-sightedly; when
the little heroine lifted her eyes and her empty arms to the trail
leading up and into the mysterious woods--and to all that she knew they
held--something happened to Truedale! He felt the clutch of a small cold
hand on his. He looked around, and into the wide eyes of Ann! The child
seemed hypnotized and, as if touched by a magic power, her resemblance
to her mother fairly radiated from her face. She was struggling for
expression. Seeking to find words that would convey what she was
experiencing. It was like remembering indistinctly another country and
scene, whose language had been forgotten. Then--and only Lynda and
Truedale heard--little Ann said:

"It's Nella-Rose! Father, it's Nella-Rose!"

Betty had been right. The shock had, for a moment, drawn the veil aside,
the child was looking back--back; she heard what others had called the
one she now remembered--the sacreder name had escaped her!

"Father, it's Nella-Rose!"

Truedale continued to look at Ann. Like a dying man--or one suddenly
born into full life--he gradually understood! As Ann looked at that
moment, so had Nella-Rose looked when, in Truedale's cabin, she turned
her eyes to the window and saw his face!

This was Nella-Rose's child, but why had Lynda--? And with this thought
such a wave of emotion swept over Truedale that he feared, strong as he
was, that he was going to lose consciousness. For a moment he struggled
with sheer physical sensation, but he kept his eyes upon the small, dark
face turned trustingly to his. Then he realized that people were moving
about; the body of the house was nearly empty; McPherson, while helping
Betty on with her cloak, was commenting upon the play.

"Good stuff!" he admitted. "Some muscle in that. Not the usual appeal to
the uglier side of life. But come, come, Mrs. Kendall, stop crying. It's
only a play, after all."

"Oh! I know," Betty quiveringly replied, "but it's so human, Dr.
McPherson. That dear little woman has almost broken my heart; but she'd
have broken it utterly if she had acted differently. I don't believe the
author ever _guessed_ her! Somewhere she _lived_ and played her part. I
just know it!"

Truedale heard all this while he watched the strained look fading from
Ann's face. The past was releasing her, giving her back to the safe,
normal present. Presently she laughed and said: "Father, I feel so
queer. Just as if I'd been--dreaming."

Then she turned with a deep, relieving sigh to Lynda. "Thank you for
bringing me, mommy-Lyn," she said, "it was the best play I've ever seen
in all my life. Only I wish that nice actress-lady had gone with the man
who didn't know. I--I feel real sorry for him. And why didn't she
go?--I'd have gone as quick as anything."

The door had closed between Ann's past and her future! Truedale got upon
his feet, but he was still dazed and uncertain as to what he should do
next. Then he heard Lynda say, and it almost seemed as if she spoke
from a distance she could not cross, "Little Ann, bring father."

He looked at Lynda and her white face startled him, but she smiled the
kind, true smile that called upon him to play his part.

Somehow the rest of the plan ran as if no cruel jar had preceded it. The
supper was perfect--the guests merry--and, when he could command
himself, Truedale--keeping his eyes on Lynda's face--confessed.

For a moment every one was quiet. Surprise, delight, stayed speech. Then
Ann asked: "And did you do it behind the locked door, father?"

"Yes, Ann."

"Well, I'm glad I kept Billy out!"

"And Lyn--did you know?" Betty said, her pretty face aglow.

"I--I guessed."

But the men kept still after the cordial handshakes. McPherson was
recalling something Jim White had said to him recently while he was with
the sheriff in the hills.

"Doc, that thar chap yo' once sent down here--thar war a lot to him
us-all didn't catch onter."

And Brace was thinking of the night, long, long ago, when Conning threw
some letters upon the glowing coals and groaned!




CHAPTER XXIII


They were home at last in old William Truedale's quiet house. Conning
went upstairs with Ann. Generally Lynda went with him to kiss Ann
good-night before they bent over Billy's crib beside their own bed. But
now, Lynda did not join them and Ann, starry-eyed, prattled on about the
play and her joy in her father's achievement. She was very quaint and
droll. She ran behind a screen and dropped her pretty dress, and issued
forth, like a white-robed angel, in her long gown, her short brown curls
falling like a beautiful frame around her gravely sweet face.

Truedale, sitting by the shaded lamp, looked at her as if, in her true
character, she stood revealed.

"Little Ann," he said huskily, "come, let me hold you while we wait for
mommy-Lyn."

Ann came gladly and nestled against his breast.

"To think it's my daddy that made the splendid play!" she whispered,
cuddling closer. "I can tell the girls and be so proud." Then she yawned
softly.

"Mommy-Lyn, I suppose, had to go and whisper the secret to Billy," she
went on, finding as usual an excuse instead of a rebuke. "Billy's missed
the glory of his life because he's so young!"

Another--a longer yawn. Then the head lay very still and Truedale saw
that she was asleep. Reverently he kissed her. Then he bore her to the
little bed behind the white screen, with its tall angels with brooding
eyes. As he laid her down she looked up dreamily:

"I'm a pretty big girl to be carried," she whispered, "but my daddy is
strong and--and great!"

Again Truedale kissed her, then went noiselessly to find Lynda.

He went to their bedchamber, but Lynda was not there. Billy, rosy and
with fat arms raised above his pretty blond head, was sleeping--unconscious
of what was passing near. Truedale went and looked yearningly down at
him.

"My boy!" he murmured over and over again; "my boy." But he did not kiss
Billy just then.

There was no doubt in Truedale's mind, now, as to where he would find
Lynda. Quietly he went downstairs and into the dim library. The fire was
out upon the hearth. The gray ashes gave no sign of life. The ticking of
the clock was cruelly loud; and there, beside the low, empty chair,
knelt Lynda--her white dress falling about her in motionless folds.

Truedale, without premeditation, crossed the room and, sitting in his
uncle's chair--the long-empty chair, lifted Lynda's face and held it in
his hand.

"Lyn," he said, fixing his dark, troubled eyes upon hers, "Lyn, who is
Ann's father?"

Lynda had not been crying; her eyes were dry and--faithful!

"You, Con," she said, quietly.

During the past years had Lynda ever permitted herself to imagine how
Conning would meet this hour she could not have asked more than now he
gave. He was ready, she saw that, to assume whatever was his to bear.
His face whitened; his mouth twitched as the truth of what he heard sunk
into his soul; but his gaze never fell from that which was raised to
his.

"Can you--tell me all about it, Lyn?" he asked.

For an instant Lynda hesitated. Misunderstanding, Truedale added:

"Perhaps you'd rather not to-night! I can wait. I trust you absolutely.
I am sure you acted wisely."

"Oh! Con, it was not I--not I. It was Nella-Rose who acted wisely. I
left it all to her! It was she who decided. I have always wanted, at
least for years, to have you know; but it was Nella-Rose's wish that you
should not. And now, little Ann has made it possible."

And then Lynda told him. He had relinquished his hold upon her and sat
with tightly clenched hands gazing at the ashes on the hearth. Lynda
pressed against him, watching--watching the effect of every word.

"And, Con, at first, when I knew, every fibre of my being claimed you!
I wanted to push her and--and Ann away, but I could not! Then I tried to
act for you. I saw that since Nella-Rose had been first in your life she
should have whatever belonged to her; I knew that you would have it so.
When I could bring myself to--to stand aside, I put us all into her
keeping. She was very frightened, very pitiable, but she closed her eyes
and I knew that she saw truth--the big truth that stood guard over all
our lives and had to be dealt with honestly--or it would crush
everything. I could see, as I watched her quiet face, that she was
feeling her way back, back. Then she realized what it all meant. Out of
the struggle--the doubt--that big, splendid husband of hers rose
supreme--her man! He had saved her when she had been most hopelessly
lost. Whatever now threatened him had to go! Her girlhood dream faded
and the safe reality of what he stood for remained. Then she opened her
eyes and made her great decision. Since you had never dishonoured her in
your thought, she would not have you know her as she then was!
But--there remained little Ann! Oh! Con, I never knew, until Billy came,
what Nella-Rose's sacrifice meant! I thought I did--but afterward, I
knew! One has to go down into the Valley to find the meaning of
motherhood. I had done, or tried to do, my duty before, but Billy taught
me to love Ann and understand--the rest!"

There was silence for a moment. Among the white ashes a tiny red spark
was showing. It glowed and throbbed; it was trying hard to find
something upon which to live.

"And, Lyn, after she went back to the hills--how was it with her?"

"She laid everything but your name upon the soul of her man. He never
exacted more. His love was big enough--divine enough--to accept. Oh!
Con, through all the years when I have tried to--to do my part, the
husband of Nella-Rose has helped me to do it! Nella-Rose never looked
back--to Ann and me. Having laid the child upon the altar,
she--trusted."

"Yes, that would be her way." Truedale's voice broke a bit.

"But, Con, I kept in touch with her through that wonderful old
woman--Lois Ann. I--oh! Con, I made life easier, brighter for them all;
just as--as you would have done. Lois Ann has told me of the happiness
of the little cabin home, of the children--there are three--"

A sharp pause caused Truedale to turn and look at Lynda.

"And--now?" he asked.

"Con, Nella-Rose died last year!"

The stillness in the room pressed close; even the clock's ticking was
unnoticed. The spark upon the hearth had become a flame; it had found
something upon which to feed. Like a radiant hope it rose, faded, then
leaped higher among the white ashes.

"She went, Con, like a child tired of its play. She was with Lois Ann;
it was the hill-fever, and she was mercifully spared the knowledge of
suffering or--renunciation. She kept repeating that she saw beautiful
things; she was glad--glad to the last minute. Her children and husband
have gone to Nella-Rose's old home. Lois Ann says they are saving
everybody! That's all, Con--all."

Then Truedale, his eyes dim but undaunted, leaned and drew Lynda up
until, kneeling before him, her hands upon his shoulders, they faced
each other.

"And this is the way women--save men!" he said.

"It is the way they try to save--themselves," Lynda replied.

"Oh, Con, Con, when will our men learn that it is the one life, the one
great love that we women want?--the full knowledge and--responsibility?"

"My darling!" Truedale kissed the tender mouth. Then drawing her close,
he asked:

"Do you remember that day in Thornton's studio--and his words? Looking
back at my life, I cannot understand--I may never understand--what the
Creator meant, but I do know that it was all in the clay!"

Lynda drew away--her hands still holding him. Her brave smile was
softening her pale face.

"Oh! the dear, dear clay!" she whispered. "The clay that has been
pressed and moulded--how I love it. I also do not understand, Con, but
this I know: the Master never lost the vision in the clay."


THE END





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