But from out the wreck and ruin Truedale wrenched one sacred
truth to which he knew he must hold--or sink utterly. He could not
expect any one in God's world to understand; it must always be hidden in
his own soul, but that marriage of his and Nella-Rose's in the gray dawn
after the storm had been holy and binding to him. From now on he must
look upon the little mountain girl as a dear, dead wife--one whose
childish sweetness was part of a time when he had learned to laugh and
play, and forget the hard years that had gone to his un-making, not his
upbuilding.
CHAPTER XII
Truedale travelled back to the place of his new life bearing his books,
his unfinished play, and his secret sorrow with him. His books and
papers were the excuse for his journey; for the rest, no one suspected
nor--so thought Truedale--was any one ever to know. That part of his
life-story was done with; it had been interpreted bunglingly and
ignorantly to be sure, but the lesson, learned by failure, had sunk deep
in his heart.
He arranged his private work in the little room under the eaves. He
intended, if time were ever his again, to begin where he had left off
when broken health interrupted.
In the extension room over William Truedale's bedchamber Lynda carried
on her designing and her study; her office, uptown, was reserved for
interviews and outside business.
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