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!"
"And you--have"--the voice trembled pitifully in spite of the effort
Truedale made to steady it--"kept silence--since she went; why? Oh!
youth is so ignorant, so cruel!" This was said more to himself than to
the girl by his knee upon whose bowed head his shrivelled hand
unconsciously rested.
"First it was for father that I kept the secret. He seemed so stricken
after--after he was alone. And then--since I was trying to be to you
what mother wanted me to be--it did not seem greatly to matter. I wanted
to win my way. I always meant to tell you, and now, after these weeks of
misunderstanding, I felt you should know that there will always be a
reason for me, of all the world, to share your life."
"I see! I see!" A great wave of emotion rose and rose, carrying the past
years of misery with it. The knowledge, once, might have saved him, but
now it had come too late. By and by he would be able to deal with this
staggering truth that had been so suddenly hurled upon him, but not now
while Katherine Kendall's daughter knelt at his side!
"Lynda, I cannot talk to you about this.
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