The Man Thou Gavest Part 22

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.

"G.o.d 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 "G.o.d's man" into his confidence.

"No, Jim. I've come to pack and go back to--to my job!"

"Gos.h.!.+ 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 d.a.m.nable 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d'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 gla.s.s 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 abas.e.m.e.nt pa.s.sed, 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: