The Man Thou Gavest Part 33

"I know," she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemed present, in a marvellously real way, "I know I love Conning. A make-believe love couldn't stand this--but the true thing can. And he loves _me!_ I know it through and through. The other love of his wasn't--what this is. But he must find this out for himself. I've always been close when he needed me; he must come to me now--for his sake even more than for mine. I am deserving of that, am I not, Uncle William?"

The understanding friends.h.i.+p did not fail the girl kneeling by the empty bed. It seemed to come through the rays of moonlight and rest like a helpful touch upon her.

"Little mother!"--and in her soul Lynda believed William Truedale and her mother had come together--"little mother, you did your best without love; I will do mine--with it! And now I am going to bed and I am going to sleep."

The next morning Truedale and Lynda were both so precipitate about attacking the situation that they nearly ran into each other at the dining-room door. They both had the grace to laugh. Then they talked of the work at hand for the morning.

"I have a studio to evolve," Lynda said, pa.s.sing a slice of toast to Truedale from the electric contrivance before her, "a woman wants a studio, she feels it will be an inspiration. She's a nice little society woman who is bored to death. She's written an article or two for a fas.h.i.+on paper and she believes she has discovered herself. I wish I knew what to put in the place. She'd scorn the real thing and I hate to compromise when it comes to such things. And you, Con, what have you that must be done?"

Truedale looked at her earnestly. "I must meet the lawyer and McPherson," he said, "but may I come--for a talk, Lyn, afterward?"

"I shall be in my workshop all day, Con, until dinner time to-night."

The day was a hard one for them both, but womanlike Lynda accepted it and came to its close with less show of wear and tear than did Truedale. She was restless and nervous. She worked conscientiously until three and accomplished something in the difficult task the society woman had entrusted her with; then she went to her bedroom and, removing every sign of her craft, donned a pretty house dress and went back to her shop. She meant to give Truedale every legitimate a.s.sistance, but she was never prouder or firmer in her life. She called the dogs and the cats in; she set the small tea table by the hearth and lighted just fire enough to take the chill from the room and yet leave it sweet and fresh.

At five there was a tap on the door.

"Just in time, Con, for the tea," she called and welcomed him in.

To find her so calm, cheerful, and lovely, was something of a shock to Truedale. Had she been in tears, or, had she shown any trace of the suffering he had endured, he would have taken her in his arms and relegated the unfortunate money to the sc.r.a.p-heap of non-essentials. But the scene upon which he entered had the effect of chilling him and bringing back the displeasing thought of Lynda's sacrifice.

"Have you had a hard day, Con?"

"Yes."

"Drink the tea, and--let me see, you like bread and b.u.t.ter, don't you, instead of cakes?"

They were silent for a moment while they sipped the hot tea. Then, raising their eyes, they looked suddenly at each other.

"Lyn, I cannot do without you!"

She coloured deeply. She knew he did not mean to be selfish--but he was.

"You would be willing even to--accept my sacrifice?" she asked so softly that he did not note the yearning in the tones--the beseeching of him to abdicate the position that, for her, was untenable.

"Anything--anything, Lynda. The day without you has been--h.e.l.l. We'll get rid of the money somehow. Now that we both know how little it means, we'll begin again and--free from Uncle William's wrong conceptions--Lyn--"

He put his cup down and rose quickly.

"Wait!" she whispered, shrinking back into her low armchair and holding him off by her smile of detachment more than by her word of command.

"I--I cannot face life without you," Truedale spoke hoa.r.s.ely, "I never really had to contemplate it before. I need you--must have you."

He came a step nearer, but Lynda shook her head.

"Something has happened to us, Con. Something rather tremendous. We must not bungle."

"One thing looms high. Only one, Lyn."

"Many things do, Con. They have been crowding thick around me all day.

There are worse things than losing each other!"

"No!" Truedale denied, vehemently.

"Yes. We could lose ourselves! This thing that makes you fling aside what went before, this thing that makes me long--oh! how I long, Con--to come to you and forget, this thing--what is it? It is the holiest thing we know, and unless we guard it sacredly we shall hurt and kill it and then, by and by, Con, we shall look at each other with frightened eyes--over a dead, dead love."

"Lynda, how--can you? How dare you say these things when you confess--Oh! my--wife!"

"Because"--and she seemed withdrawing from Truedale as he advanced--"because I have confessed! You and I, Con, have reached to-day, by different routes, the most important and vital problem. All my life I have been pus.h.i.+ng doors open as I came along. Sometimes I have only peered in and hurried on; sometimes I have stayed and learned a lesson. It will always be so with me. I must know. I think you are willing not to know unless you are forced."

Truedale winced and went back slowly to his chair.

"Con, dear, unless you wish it otherwise, I want, as far as possible, to begin from to-day and find out just how much we do mean to each other.

Let us push open the doors ahead until we make sure we both want the same abiding place. Should you find a spot better, safer for you than this that we thought we knew, I will never hold you by a look or word, dear."

"And you--Lyn?" Truedale's voice shook.

"For myself I ask the same privilege."

"You mean that we--live together, yet apart?"

"Unless you will it otherwise, dear. In that case, we will close this door and say--good-bye, now."

Her strength, her tenderness, unmanned Truedale. Again he felt that call upon him which she had inspired the night of his confession. Again he rallied to defend her--from her own pitiless sense of honour.

"By heaven!" he cried. "It shall not be good-bye. I will accept your terms, live up to them, and dare the future."

"Good, old Con! And now, please, dear, go. I think--I think I am going to cry--a little and"--she looked up quiveringly--"I mustn't have red eyes at dinner time. Brace and Betty are coming. Thank heaven, Con, Betty will make us laugh."

CHAPTER XVIII

Having agreed upon this period of probation both Lynda and Truedale entered upon it with characteristic determination. There were times when Conning dejectedly believed that no woman could act as Lynda was doing, if she loved a man. No, it was not in woman's power to forego all Lynda was foregoing if she loved deeply. Not that Lynda could be said to be cold or indifferent; she had never been sweeter, truer; but she was so amazingly serene!

Perhaps she was content, having secured his rights for him, to go on and be thankful that so little was actually exacted from her.

But such reasoning eventually shamed Truedale, and he acknowledged that there was something superb in a woman who, while still loving a man, was able to withhold herself from him until both he and she had sounded the depths of their natures.

In this state of mind Truedale devoted himself to business, and Lynda, with a fresh power that surprised even herself, resumed her own tasks.

"And this is _love_," she often thought to herself, "it is the real thing. Some women think they have love when _love has them_. This beautiful, tangible something that is making even these days sacred has proved itself. I can rely upon it--lean heavily upon it."

Sometimes she wondered what she was waiting for. Often she feared, in her sad moments, that it might last forever--be accepted this poor counterfeit for the real--and the full glory escape her and Truedale.

But at her best she knew what she was waiting for--what was coming. It was something that, driving all else away, would carry her and Conning together without reservations or doubts. They would _know!_ He would know the master pa.s.sion of his life; she, that she could count all lost unless she made his life complete and so crown her own.