"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 h.e.l.l!"

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 s.e.x 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 d.a.m.nable 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 G.o.d! 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 s.p.a.ce 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 c.u.mbersome 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--"