The Man Thou Gavest. Harriet T. Comstock

had lost lustre. The houses themselves were well built and sternly correct. William Truedale’s was the best in the block and it stood with a vacant lot on either side of it. The detachment gave it dignity and seclusion.

      There had been a time when Truedale hoped that the woman he loved would choose and place furniture and hangings to her taste and his, but when that hope failed and sickness fell upon him, he ordered only such rooms put in order as were necessary for his restricted life. The library on the first floor was a storehouse of splendid books and austere luxury; beyond it were bath and bedroom, both fitted out perfectly. The long, wide hall leading to these apartments was as empty and bare as when carpenter and painter left it. Two servants—husband and wife—served William Truedale, and rarely commented upon anything concerning him or their relations to him. They probably had rooms for themselves comfortably furnished, but in all the years Lynda Kendall had never been anywhere in the house except in the rooms devoted to her old friend’s use. Sometimes she had wondered how Con fared, but nothing was ever said on the subject and she and Brace had been, in their visiting, limited to the downstair rooms.

      When Lynda was ushered now into the library from the cold, outer hall it was like finding comfort and luxury in the midst of desolation. The opening door had not roused the man by the great open fire. He seemed lost in a gloomy revery and Lynda had time to note, unobserved, the tragic, pain-racked face and the pitifully thin outlines of the figure stretched on the invalid chair and covered by a rug of rare silver fox.

      There were birds in gilded cages by the large south window—mute little mites they were; they rarely if ever sang but they were alive! There were plants, too, luxuriously growing in pots and boxes—but not a flower on one! They existed, not joyously, but persistently. A Russian hound, white as snow, lay before the fire; his soft, mournful eyes were fixed upon Lynda, but he did not stir or announce the intrusion. A cat and two kittens, also white, were rolled like snowballs on a crimson cushion near the hearth; Lynda wondered whether they ever played. Alone, like a dead thing amid the still life, William Truedale, helpless—death ever creeping nearer and nearer to his bitter heart—passed his weary days.

      As she stood, watching and waiting, Lynda Kendall’s eyes filled with quick tears. The weeks of her absence had emphasized every tragic detail of the room and the man. He had probably missed her terribly from his bare life, but he had made no sign, given no call.

      “Uncle William!”

      Truedale turned his head and fixed his deep-sunk, brilliant eyes upon her.

      “Oh! So you’ve thought better of it?” was all that he said.

      “Yes, I’ve thought better of it. Will you let me stay to dinner?”

      “Take off your wraps. There now! draw up the ottoman; so long as you have a spine, rely upon it. Never lounge if you can help it.”

      Lynda drew the low, velvet-covered stool near the couch-chair; the hound raised his sharp, beautiful head and nestled against her knee. Truedale watched it—animals never came to him unless commanded—why did they go to Lynda? Probably for the same reason that he clung to her, watched for her and feared, with sickening fear, that she might never come again!

      “I suppose, since Con’s death isn’t on my head, you felt that you could forgive me, eh?”

      “Well, something like that, Uncle William.”

      “What business is it of yours what I do with my money—or my nephew?”

      These two never approached each other by conventional lines. Their absences were periods in which to store vital topics and questions—their meetings were a series of explosive outbursts.

      “None of my business, Uncle William, but if I could not approve, why—”

      “Approve! Huh! Who are you that you should judge, approve, or disapprove your elders?”

      There was no answer to this. Lynda wanted to laugh, but feared she might cry. The hard, indignant words belied the quivering gladness of the voice that greeted her in every tone with its relief and surrender.

      “I’ve got a good deal to say to you, girl. It is well you came to-day—you might otherwise have been too late. I’m planning a long journey.”

      Lynda started.

      “A—long journey?” she said. Through the past years, since the dread disease had attacked Truedale, his travelling had been confined to passing 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 passionate 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 God, 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 noble 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