The Man Thou Gavest

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 débris 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.

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 coöperate 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 rôle 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 coöperation. 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.