Part 19 (1/2)

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 embarra.s.sing, 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt for Pine Cone. And White! Isn't he G.o.d'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 G.o.d'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 compa.s.sion 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 d.a.m.nable 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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sion in the hills, had supposed.