The Man Thou Gavest Part 35

"Not yet, Mister Con. She went out in a deal of a hurry long about three o'clock. She didn't say a word--and that's agin her pleasant fas.h.i.+on--so I took it that she had business that fretted her. She's been in the workshop all day." Thomas put the plates in place. They were white china, with delicate gold edges. "Hum! hum! Mister Con, your uncle used to say, when he felt talkative, that Miss Lynda ought to have some one to hold her back when she took to running."

"I'll look her up, Thomas!"

Conning went up to the workshop and turned on the electricity. A desolate sensation overcame the exhilaration of the afternoon. Lynda seemed strangely, ominously distant--as if she had gone upon a long, long journey.

There was a dying fire on the hearth and the room was in order except for the wide table upon which still lay the work Lynda had been engaged with before she left the house.

Truedale sat down before it and gradually became absorbed, while not really taking in the meaning of what he saw. He had often studied and appreciated Lynda's original way of solving her problems. It was not enough for her to place upon paper the designs her trained talent evolved; she always, as she put it, lived in the rooms she conceived.

Here were real furniture--diminutive, but perfect, and real hangings--colour and form ideal, and arranged so that they could be s.h.i.+fted in order that light effects might be tested.

It was no wonder Truedale had often remarked that Lynda's work was so individual and personal--she breathed the breath of life in it before she let it go from her. Truedale had always been thankful that marriage had not taken from Lynda her joy in her profession. He would have hated to know that he interfered with so real and vital a gift.

But this room upon which he was now looking was different from anything he had ever before seen in the workshop. It interested and puzzled him.

Lynda's specialties were libraries and living rooms; there were two or three things she never attempted--and this? Truedale looked closer. How pretty it was--like a child's playroom--and how fanciful! There was a fireplace off in a corner, before which stood a screen with a most benign goblin warning away, with spread claws, any heedless, toddling feet. The broad window-seats might serve as boxes for childish treasure.

There were delectable, wee chairs and conveniently low stools; there was a tiny bed set in a dim corner over which, on a protecting s.h.i.+eld, angels with folded wings and rapt faces were outlined.

"Why, this must be a--nursery!" Truedale exclaimed half aloud; "and she said she would never design one."

Clearly he recalled Lynda's reason. "If a father and a mother cannot conceive and carry out the needs of a nursery, they do not deserve one.

I could never bring myself to intrude there."

"What does this mean?" Truedale bent closer. The table had been painted white to serve as a floor for the dainty setting, and now, as he looked he saw stains--dark, tell-tale stains on the s.h.i.+ning surface.

They were tear-stains; Lynda, who so joyously put her heart and soul in the ideals for other homes, had wept over the nursery of another woman's child!

For some reason Truedale was that day particularly open to impression.

As he sat with the toy-like emblems before him, the holiest and strongest things of life seized upon him with terrific meaning. He drew out his watch and saw that it was the dinner hour and the still house proved that the mistress was yet absent.

"There is only one person to whom she would go," he murmured. "I'll go to Betty's and bring Lynda home."

He made an explanation to Thomas that covered the situation.

"I found what the trouble was, Thomas," he said. "It will be all right when we get back. But don't keep dinner."

He took a cab to Brace's. He was too distraught to put himself on exhibition in a public conveyance. Brace sat in lonely but apparently contented state at the head of his table.

"Bully for you, old man," he greeted. "You were never more welcome. I'll have a plate put on for you at once. What's the matter? You look--"

"Ken, where's Betty?"

"Run away to herself, Con. Went yesterday. Goes less and less often, but she cut yesterday."

"Has--has Lynda been here to-day?"

"Yes. About three. When she found Betty gone, she wouldn't stay. Sit down, old man. You'll learn, as I have, to appreciate Lyn more if she isn't always where we men have thought women ought to be."

Truedale sat down opposite Kendall but said he would take only a cup of coffee. When it was finished he rose, more steadily, and said quietly:

"I know it's unwritten law, Ken, that we shouldn't follow Betty up without an invitation; but I've got to go over there to-night."

"It's dangerous, old man. I advise against it. What's up?"

"I must see Lyn. I believe she is there."

"Rather a large-sized misunderstanding?"

"I hope, Ken, G.o.d helping me, it's going to be the biggest _understanding_ Lynda and I have ever had."

Kendall was impressed--and, consequently, silent.

"I'm sure Betty will forgive me. Good-night."

"Good-night, old chap, and--and whatever it is, I fancy it will come out all right."

And then, into the night Truedale plunged--determined to master the absurd situation that both he and Lynda had permitted to exist. He felt like a man who had been suffering in a nightmare and had just awakened and shaken off the effect of the unholy dream.

CHAPTER XIX

Lynda, that winter day, had undertaken her task with unwonted energy.

She had never done a similar piece of work before. In her early beginning she had rather despised the inadequacy of women who, no matter what might be said in defense of their ignorance regarding the rest of their homes, did not know how to design and plan their own nurseries.

Later she had eliminated designing of this kind because so few asked for it, and it did not pay to put much time on study in preparation for the rare occasions when nurseries were included in the orders. But this was an exception. A woman who had lost three children was expecting the fourth, and she had come to Lynda with a touching appeal.

"You helped make a home of my house, Mrs. Truedale, but I always managed the nursery--myself before; now I cannot. I want you to put joy and welcome in it for me. If I were to undertake it I should fail miserably, and evolve only gloom and fear. It will be different--afterward. But you understand and--you will?"

Lynda had understood and had set herself to her work with the new, happy insight that Betty's little baby had made possible. It had all gone well until the "sleeping corner" was reached, and then--something happened. A memory of one of Betty's confessions started it. "Lyn," she had said, just before her baby came, "I kneel by this small, waiting crib and pray--as only mothers know how to pray--and G.o.d teaches them afresh every time! I do so want to be worthy of the confidence of--G.o.d."

"And I--am never to know!" Lynda bowed her head. "I with my love--with my desire to hear G.o.d speak--am never to hear. Why?"

Then it was that Lynda wept. Wept first from a desolate sense of defeat; then--and G.o.d sometimes speaks to women kneeling beside the beds of children not their own--she raised her head and trembled at the flood of joy that overcame her. It was like a mirage, seen in another woman's world, of her own blessed heritage.

Filled with this vision she had fled to Betty's, only to find that Betty had fled on her own account!

There was no moment of indecision; welcome or not, Lynda had to reach Betty--and at once!

She had tarried, after setting her face to the river. She even stopped at a quiet little tea room and ate a light meal. Then she waited until the throng of business men had crossed the ferry to their homes. It was quite dark when she reached the wooded spot where, hidden deep among the trees, was Betty's retreat.

There was a light in the house--the living room faced the path--and through the uncurtained window Lynda saw Betty sitting before the fire with her little dog upon her lap.

"Oh, Betty," she whispered, stretching her arms out to the lonely little figure in the low, deep chair. "Betty! Betty!" She waited a moment, then she tapped lightly upon the gla.s.s. The dog sprang to the floor, its sharp ears twitching, but he did not bark. Betty came to the door and stood in the warm, lighted s.p.a.ce with arms extended. She knew no fear, there was only doubt upon her face.

"Lyn, is it you?"

"Yes! How did you guess?"