Lynda started.

"A--long journey?" she said. Through the past years, since the dread disease had attacked Truedale, his travelling had been confined to pa.s.sing to and from bedchamber and library in the wheelchair.

"You--you think I jest?" There was a grim humour in the burning eyes.

"I do not know."

"Well, then, I'll tell you. I am quite serious. While I have been exiled from your attentions--chained to this rock" (he struck the arms of the chair like a pa.s.sionate child), "I have reached a conclusion I have always contemplated, more or less. Now that I have recognized that the time will undoubtedly come when you, Con--the lot of you--will clear out, I have decided to prove to you all that I am not quite the dependant you think me."

"Why--what can you mean, Uncle William?"

This was a new phase and Lynda bent across the dog at her knee and put her hand on the arm of the chair. She was frightened, aroused. Truedale saw this and laughed a dry, mirthless laugh.

"Oh! a chair that can roll the length of this house can roll the distance I desire to go. Money can pay for anything--anything! Thank G.o.d, I have money, plenty of it. It means power--even to such a thing as I am. Power, Lynda, power! It can snarl and unsnarl lives; it can buy favour and cause terror. Think what I would have been without it all these years. Think! Why, I have bargained with it; crushed with it; threatened and beckoned with it--now I am going to play with it! I'm going to surprise every one and have a gala time myself. I'm going to set things spinning and then I'm going on a journey. It's queer" (the sneering voice fell to a murmur), "all my prison-years I've thought of this and planned it; the doing of it seems quite the simplest part. I wonder now why I have kept behind the bars when, by a little exertion--a little indifference to opinion--I might have broadened my horizon. But good Lord! I haven't wasted time. I've studied every detail; nothing has escaped me. This" (he touched his head--a fine, almost n.o.ble head, covered by a wealth of white hair), "this has been doing double duty while these" (he pointed to his useless legs) "have refused to play their part. While I felt conscientiously responsible, I stuck to my job; but a man has a right to a little freedom of his own!"

Lynda drew so close that her stool touched the chair. She bent her cheek upon the shrivelled hand resting upon the arm. The excitement and feverish banter of Truedale affected her painfully. She reproached herself bitterly for having left him to the mercy of his loneliness and imagination. Her interest in, her resentment for, Conning faded before the pitiful display of feeling expressed in every tone and word of Truedale.

The touch of the warm cheek against his hand stirred the man. His eyes softened, his face twitched and, because the young eyes were hidden, he permitted his gaze to rest reverently upon the bowed head. She was the only thing on earth he loved--the only thing that cut through his crust of hardness and despair and made him human. Then, from out the unexpected, he asked:

"Lynda, when did you break your engagement to John Morrell?"

The girl started, but she did not change her position. She never lied or prevaricated to Truedale--she might keep her own counsel, but when she spoke it was simple truth.

"About six months ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was nothing to tell, Uncle William."

"There was the fact, wasn't there?"

"Oh! yes, the fact."

"Why did you do it?"

"That--is--a long story." Lynda looked up, now, and smiled the rare smile that only the stricken man understood. Appeal, confusion, and detachment marked it. She longed, helplessly, for sympathy and understanding.

"Well, long stories are welcome enough here, child; especially after the dearth of them. Ring the bell; let's have dinner. Pull down the shades and" (Truedale gave a wide gesture) "put the live stock out! An early meal, a long evening--what better could we add than a couple of long stories?"

In the doing of what Truedale commanded, Lynda found a certain relief.

These visits were like grim plays, to be sure, but they were also sacred duties. This one, after the lapse of time filled with new and strange emotions, was a bit grimmer than usual, but it had the effect of a tonic upon the ragged nerves of the two actors.

The round table was set by the fire--it was the manservant who attended now; silver and gla.s.s and linen were perfect, and the simple fare carefully chosen and prepared.

Truedale was never so much at his ease as when he presided at these small dinners. He ate little; he chose the rarest bits for his guest; he talked lightly--sometimes delightfully. At such moments Lynda realized what he must have been before love and health failed him.

To-night--shut away from all else, the strain of the past weeks ignored, the long stories deliberately pushed aside--Truedale spoke of the books he had been reading; Lynda, of her work.

"I have two wonderful houses to do," she said, poising a morsel of food gracefully. "One is for a couple recently made rich; they do not dare to move for fear of going wrong. I have that place from garret to cellar.

It's an awful responsibility--but lots of fun!"

"It must be. Spending other people's money and making them as good as new at the same time, must be rare sport. And the other contract?"

"Oh! that is another matter." Lynda leaned back and laughed. "I'm toning up an old house. Putting false fronts on, a bit of rouge, filling in wrinkles; in short, giving a side-tracked old lady something to interest her. She doesn't know it, but I'm letting her do the work, and she's very happy. She has a kind of rusty good taste. I'm polishing it without hurting her. The living room! Why, Uncle William, it is a picture. It is a tender dream come true."

"And you are charging for that, you pirate?"

"I do not have to. The dear soul is so grateful that I'm forced to refuse favours."

"Lynda, ring for Thomas." Truedale drew his brows close. "I think I'll--I'll smoke. It may help me to sleep after the long stories and--when I am alone." He rarely indulged in this way--tobacco excited instead of soothed him--but the evening must have all the clear thought possible!

CHAPTER IV

Lynda sat again upon her ottoman--her capacity for sitting hours without a support to her back had always been one of her charms for William Truedale. The old man looked at her now; how strong and fine she was!

How reliant and yet--how appealing! How she would always give and give--be used to the breaking point--and rarely understood. Truedale understood her through her mother!

"I want to ask you, Lynda, why do you come here--you of all the world? I have often wondered."

"I--I like to come, generally, Uncle William."

"But--other times, out of the general? You come oftener then. Why?"

And now Lynda turned her clear, dark eyes upon him. A sudden resolve had been taken. She was going to comfort him as she never had before, going to recompense him for the weeks just past when she had failed him while espousing Con's cause. She was going to share her secret with him!

"Just before mother went, Uncle William, she told me--"

The hand holding the cigar swayed--it was a very frail, thin hand.

"Told you--what?"

"That you once--loved her."

The old wound ached as it was bared. Lynda meant to comfort, but she was causing excruciating pain.

"She--told you that? And you so young! Why should she so burden you--she of all women?"

"And--my mother loved you, Uncle William! She found it out too late and--and after that she did her best for--for Brace and me and--father!"

The room seemed swaying, as all else in the universe was, at that moment, for William Truedale. Everything that had gone to his undoing--to the causing of his bitter loneliness and despair--was beaten down by the words that flooded the former darkness with almost terrifying light. For a moment or two he dared not speak--dared not trust his voice. The shock had been great. Then, very quietly:

"And--and why did she--speak at the last?"

Lynda's eyes filled with tears.

"Because," she faltered, "since she could not have come to you without dishonour--she sent me! Her confidence has been the sacredest thing in my life and I have tried to do as she desired. I--I have failed sadly--lately, but try to forgive me for--my mother's sake!"