"If what?" Lynda was afraid now.

"If he--marries you!"

"Oh! this is beyond endurance! How could you be so cruel, Uncle William?" The hot, pa.s.sionate tears were burning the indignant face.

"He will not know. The years will test and prove him."

"But I shall know! If you thought best to do this thing, why have you told me?"

"There have been hours when I myself did not know why; I understand to-night. Your mother led me!"

"My mother could never have hurt me so. Never!"

"You must trust--her and me, Lynda."

"Suppose--oh! suppose--Con does not ... Oh! this is degrading!"

"Then the fortune will--be yours. McPherson and I have worked this out--most carefully."

"Mine! Mine! Why"--and here Lynda flung her head back and laughed relievedly--"I refuse absolutely to accept it!"

"In that case it goes--to charities."

A hush fell in the room. Baffled and angry, Lynda dared not trust herself to speak and Truedale sank back wearily. Then came a rattle of wheels in the quiet street--a toot of a taxi horn.

"Thomas has not forgotten to provide for your home trip; but the man can wait. The night is mild"--Truedale spoke gently--"and you and I are rich."

Lynda did not seem to hear. Her thoughts were rushing wildly over the path set for her by her old friend's words.

"Conning would not know!" she grasped and held to that; "he would be able to act independently. At first it had seemed impossible. Her knowledge could affect no one but herself! If"--and here Lynda breathed faster--"if Conning should want her enough to ask her to share his life that the three thousand dollars made possible, why then the happiness of bringing his own to him would be hers!--hers!"

Again the opposite side of the picture held her. "But suppose he did _not_ want her--in that way? Then she, his friend--the one who, in all the world, loved him the best--would profit by it; she would be a wealthy woman, for her mother's sake or"--the alternative staggered her--"she could let everything slip, everything and bear the consequences!"

At this point she turned to Truedale and asked pitifully again:

"Oh! why, why did you do this?"

There was no anger or rebellion in the words, but a pathos that caused the old man to close his eyes against the pleading in the uplifted face.

It was the one thing he could not stand.

"Time will prove, child; time will prove. I could not make you understand; your mother might have--I could not. But time will show.

Time is a strange revealer. All my life I have been working in darkness until--now! I should have trusted more--you must learn from me.

"There, do not keep the man waiting longer. I wonder--do not do it unless you want to, or think it right--but I wonder if you could kiss me good-bye?"

Lynda rose and, tear-blinded, bent over and kissed him--kissed him twice, once for her mother!--and she felt that he understood. She had never touched her lips to his before, and it seemed a strange ceremony.

An hour later Truedale called for Thomas and was wheeled to his bedroom and helped to bed.

"Perhaps," he said to the man, "you had better put those drops on the stand. If I cannot sleep--" Thomas smiled and obeyed. There had been a time when he feared that small, dark bottle, but not now! He believed too sincerely in his master's strength of character. Having the medicine near might, by suggestion, help calm the restlessness, but it had never been resorted to, so Thomas smiled as he turned away with a cheery:

"Very well, sir; but there will be no need, I hope."

"Good-night, Thomas. Raise the shade, please. It's a splendid night, isn't it? If they should build on that rear lot I could not see the moon so well. I may decide to buy that property."

When Thomas had gone and he was alone at last, Truedale heaved a heavy sigh. It seemed to relieve the restraint under which he had been labouring for weeks.

All his life the possibility of escape from his bondage had made the bondage less unendurable. It was like knowing of a secret pa.s.sage from his prison house--an exit dark and attended by doubts and fears, but nevertheless a sure pa.s.sage to freedom. It had seemed, in the past, a cowardly thing to avail himself of his knowledge--it was like going with his debts unpaid. But now, in the bright, moonlit room it no longer appeared so. He had finished his task, had ended the bungling, and had heard a clear call ringing with commendation and approval. There was nothing to hold him back!

Over in the cabinet by the window were a photograph and a few letters; Truedale turned toward them and wondered if Lynda, instead of his old friend McPherson, would find them? He wished he had spoken--but after all, he could not wait. He had definitely decided to take the journey!

But he spoke softly as if to a Presence:

"And so--you played a part? Poor girl! how well--you played it! And you--suffered--oh! my G.o.d--and I never did you the justice of understanding. And you left your girl--to me--I have tried not to fail you there, Katherine!"

Then Truedale reached for the bottle. He took a swallow of the contents and waited! Presently he took another and a thrill of exhilaration stirred his sluggish blood. Weakly, gropingly, he stretched his benumbed hand out again; he was well on his way now. The long journey was begun in the moonlight and, strange to say, it did not grow dark, nor did he seem to be alone. This surprised him vaguely, he had always expected it would be so different!

And by and by one face alone confronted him--it was brighter than the moonlit way. It smiled understandingly--it, too, had faced the broad highway--it could afford to smile.

Once more the heavy, dead-cold hand moved toward the stand beside the bed, but it fell nerveless ere it reached what it sought.

The escape had been achieved!

CHAPTER V

The days pa.s.sed and, unfettered, Jim White remained in the deep woods.

After Nella-Rose's disturbing but thrilling advent, Truedale rebounded sharply and, alone in his cabin, brought himself to terms. By a rigid arraignment he relegated, or thought he had relegated, the whole matter to the realm of things he should not have permitted, but which had done no real harm. He brought out the heavy book on philosophy and endeavoured to study. After a few hours he even resorted to the wet towel, thinking that suggestion might a.s.sist him, but Nella-Rose persistently and impishly got between his eyes and the pages and flouted philosophy by the magic of her superst.i.tion and bewitching charm.

Then Truedale attacked his play, viciously, commandingly. This was more successful. He reconstructed his plot somewhat--he let Nella-Rose in!

Curbed and somewhat re-modelled, she materialized and, while he dealt strictly with her, writing was possible.

So the first day and night pa.s.sed. On the second day Truedale's new strength demanded exercise and recreation. He couldn't be expected to lock himself in until White returned to chaperone him. After all, there was no need of being a fool. So he packed a gunny sack with food and a book or two, and sallied forth, after providing generously for the live stock and calling the dogs after him.

But Truedale was unaware of what was going on about him. Pine Cone Settlement had, since the trap episode, been tense and waiting. Not many things occurred in the mountains and when they did they were made the most of. With significant silence the friends and foes of Burke Lawson were holding themselves in check until he returned to his old haunts; then there would be considerable shooting--not necessarily fatal, a midnight raid or two, a general rumpus, and eventually, a truce.

All this Jim White knew, and it was the propelling factor that had sent him to the deep woods. His sentiments conflicted with duty. Guilty as Lawson was, the sheriff liked him better than he did Martin and he meant, should he come across Burke in "the sticks," to take him off for a bear hunt and some good advice. Thus he would justify his conscience and legal duties. But White, strange to say, was as ignorant as Truedale was of an element that had entered into conditions. It had never occurred to Jim to announce or explain his visitor's arrival. To Pine Cone a "furriner" aroused at best but a superficial interest and, since Truedale had arrived, unseen, at night, why mention him to a community that could not possibly have anything in common with him? So it was that Greyson and a few others, noting Truedale at a distance and losing sight of him at once, concluded that he was Burke, back and in hiding; and a growing but stealthy excitement was in the air. He was supposed by both factions to be with the sheriff, and feeling ran high. In the final estimate, could White have known it, he himself held no small part!

Beloved and hated, Lawson divided the community for and against himself about equally. There were those who defended and swore they would kill any who harmed the young outlaw--he was of the jovial, dare-devil type and as loyal to his friends as he was unyielding to his foes. Others declared that the desperado must be "finished"; the trap disagreement was but the last of a long list of crimes; it was time to put a quietus on one who refused to fall into line--who called the sheriff his friend and had been known to hobn.o.b with revenue men! That, perhaps, was the blackest deed to be attributed to any native.

So all Pine Cone was on the war path and Truedale, heedless and unaware, took his air and exercise at his peril.

The men of the hills had a clear case now, since Peter Greyson had given his evidence, which, by the way, became more conclusive hour by hour as imagination, intoxication, and the delight of finding himself important, grew upon Greyson.

"Jim told me," Peter had confided to Jed Martin, "that he was going to get a posse from way-back and round Lawson up."