Part 18 (1/2)

”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 appet.i.te!” 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 pa.s.sionate 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 furnis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d!” 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.”