There are spaces in all lives that seem so surrounded by safety and established conditions that one cannot conceive of change.  Those particular spots may know light and shade of passing events but it seems that they cannot, of themselves, be affected.  So Truedale and Lynda had considered their lives at that period.  They were supremely happy, they were gloriously busy-and that meant that they both recognized limitations.  They took each day as it came and let it go at the end with a half-conscious knowledge that it had been too short.

Then one late October afternoon Truedale tapped on the door of Lynda’s workshop and to her cheery “come,” entered, closed the door after him, and sat down.  He was very white and sternly serious.  Lynda looked at him questioningly but did not speak.

“I’ve seen Dr. McPherson,” Conning said presently, “he sent for me.  He’s been away, you know.”

“I had not known-but-” Then Lynda remembered!

“Lynda, did you know-of my uncle’s-will before his death?”

“Why, yes, Con.”

Something cold and death-like clutched Lynda’s heart.  It was as if an icy wave had swept warmth and safety before it, leaving her aghast and afraid.

“Yes, I knew.”

“Will you tell me-I could not go into this with McPherson, somehow; he didn’t see it my way, naturally-will you tell me what would have become of the-the fortune had I not married you?”

The deathly whiteness of Lynda’s face did not stay Truedale’s hard words; he was not thinking of her-even of himself; he was thinking of the irony of fate in the broad sense.

“The money would have-come to me.”  Then, as if to divert any further misunderstanding.  “And when I refused it-it would have reverted to charities.”

“I see.  And you did this for me, Lyn!  How little even you understood.  Now that I have the cursed money I do not know what to do with it-how to get rid of it.  Still it was like you, Lynda, to sacrifice yourself in order that I might have what you thought was my due.  You always did that, from girlhood.  I might have known no other woman could have done what you have done, no such woman as you, Lyn, without a mighty motive; but you did not know me, really!”

And now, looking at Lynda, it was like looking at a dead face-a face from which warmth and light had been stricken.

“I-do not know what you-mean, Con,” she said, vaguely.

“Being you, Lyn, you couldn’t have taken the money, yourself, particularly if you had declined to marry me.  A lesser woman would have done it without a qualm, feeling justified in outwitting so cruel a thing as the bequest; but not you!  You saw no other way, so you-you with your high ideals and clear beliefs-you married the man I am-in order to-to give me-my own.  Oh, Lyn, what a sacrifice!”

“Stop!” Lynda rose from her chair and, by a wide gesture, swept the marks of her trade far from her.  In so doing she seemed to make space to breathe and think.

“Do you think I am the sort of girl who would sell herself for anything-even for the justice I might think was yours?”

“Sell yourself?  Thank God, between us, Lynda, that does not enter in.”

“It would have, were I the woman your words imply.  I had nothing to gain by marrying you, nothing!  Nothing-that is-but-but-what you are unable to see.”  And then, so suddenly that Truedale could not stop her, Lynda almost ran from the room.

For an hour Truedale sat in her empty shop and waited.  He dared not seek her and he realized, at last, that she was not coming back to him.  His frame of mind was so abject and personal that he could not get Lynda’s point of view.  He could not, as yet, see the insult he had offered, because he had set her so high and himself so low.  He saw her only as the girl and woman who, her life through, had put herself aside and considered others.  He saw himself in the light such a woman as he believed Lynda to be would regard him.  He might have known, he bitterly acknowledged, that Lynda could not have overlooked in her pure woman soul the lapse of his earlier life.  He remembered how, that night of his confession, she had begged to be alone-to think!  Later, her silence-oh! he understood it now.  It was her only safeguard.  And that once, in the woods, when he had blindly believed in his great joy-how she had solemnly made the best of the experience that was too deep in both hearts to be resurrected.  What a fool he had been to dream that so wrong a step as he had once taken could lead him to perfect peace.  Thinking these thoughts, how could he, as yet, comprehend the wrong he was doing Lynda?  Why, he was grieving over her, almost breaking his heart in his desire to do something-anything-to free her from the results of her useless sacrifice.

At six o’clock Truedale went downstairs, but the house was empty.  Lynda had gone, taking all sense of home with her.  He did not wait to see what the dinner hour might bring about; he could not trust himself just then.  Indeed-having blasted every familiar landmark-he was utterly and hopelessly lost.  He couldn’t imagine how he was ever to find his way back to Lynda, and yet they would have to meet-have to consider.

Lynda, after leaving her workshop, had only one desire-she wanted Betty more than she wanted anything else.  She put on her hat and coat and started headlong for her brother’s apartment farther uptown.  She felt she must get there before Brace arrived and lay her trouble before the astoundingly clear, unfaltering mind and heart of the little woman who, so short a time ago, had come into their lives.  But after a few blocks, Lynda’s steps halted.  If this were just her own trouble-but what trouble is just one’s own?-she need not hesitate; but how could she reveal what was deepest and most unfailing in her soul to any living person-even to Betty of the unhesitating vision?

Presently Lynda retraced her steps.  The calm autumn night soothed and protected her.  She looked up at the stars and thought of the old words:  “Why so hot, little man, why so hot?” Why, indeed?  And then in the still dimness-for she had turned into the side streets-she let Truedale come into her thoughts to the exclusion, for the moment, of her own bitter wrong.  She looked back at his strange, lonely boyhood with so little in it that could cause him to view justly his uncle’s last deed.  She remembered his pride and struggle-his reserve and almost abnormal sensitiveness.  Then-the experience in the mountain!  How terribly deep that had sunk into Truedale’s life; how unable he had been to see in it any wrong but his own.  Lynda had always honoured him for that.  It had made it possible for her to trust him absolutely.  She had respected his fine position and had never blurred it by showing him how she, as a woman, could see the erring on the woman’s part.  No, she had left Nella-Rose to him as his high-minded chivalry had preserved her-she had dared do all that because she felt so secure in the love and sincerity of the present.

“And now-what?”

The bitterness was past.  The shock had left her a bit weak and helpless but she no longer thought of the human need of Betty.  She went home and sat down before the fire in the library and waited for light.  At ten o’clock she came to a conclusion.  Truedale must decide this thing for himself!  It was, after all, his great opportunity.  She could not, with honour and self-respect, throw herself upon him and so complicate the misunderstanding.  If her life with him since June had not convinced him of her simple love and faith-her words, now, could not.  He must seek her-must realize everything.  And in this decision Lynda left herself so stranded and desolate that she looked up with wet eyes and saw-William Truedale’s empty chair!  A great longing for her old friend rose in her breast-a longing that not even death had taken from her.  The clock struck the half-hour and Lynda got up and with no faltering went toward the bedroom door behind which the old man had started forth on his journey to find peace.

And just as she went, with blinded eyes and aching heart, to shut herself away from the dreariness of the present, Truedale entered the house and, from the hall, watched her.  He believed that she had heard him enter, he hoped she was going to turn toward him-but no! she went straight to the never-used room, shut the door, and-locked it!

Truedale stood rooted to the spot.  What he had hoped-what trusted-he could hardly have told.  But manlike he was the true conservative and with the turning of that key his traditions and established position crumbled around him.

Lynda and he were married and, unless they decided upon an open break, they must live their lives.  But the turning of the key seemed to proclaim to the whole city a new dispensation.  A declaration of independence that spurned-tradition.

For a moment Truedale was angry, unsettled, and outraged.  He strode into the room with stern eyes; he walked half way to the closed-and locked-door; he gazed upon it as if it were a tangible foe which he might overcome and, by so doing, reestablish the old ideals.  Then-and it was the saving grace-Truedale smiled grimly.  “To be sure,” he muttered.  “Of course!” and turned to his room under the eaves.

But the following day had to be faced.  There were several things that had to be dealt with besides the condition arising from the locking of the door of William Truedale’s room.

Conning battled with this fact nearly all night, little realizing that Lynda was feeling her way to the same conclusion in the quiet room below.

“I’m not beaten, Uncle William,” she whispered, kneeling beside the bed.  “If I could only see how to meet to-morrow I would be all right.”

And then a queer sort of comfort came to her.  The humour with which her old friend would have viewed the situation pervaded the room, bringing strength with it.

“I know,” she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemed present, in a marvellously real way, “I know I love Conning.  A make-believe love couldn’t stand this-but the true thing can.  And he loves me! I know it through and through.  The other love of his wasn’t-what this is.  But he must find this out for himself.  I’ve always been close when he needed me; he must come to me now-for his sake even more than for mine.  I am deserving of that, am I not, Uncle William?”

The understanding friendship did not fail the girl kneeling by the empty bed.  It seemed to come through the rays of moonlight and rest like a helpful touch upon her.

“Little mother!”-and in her soul Lynda believed William Truedale and her mother had come together-“little mother, you did your best without love; I will do mine-with it!  And now I am going to bed and I am going to sleep.”

The next morning Truedale and Lynda were both so precipitate about attacking the situation that they nearly ran into each other at the dining-room door.  They both had the grace to laugh.  Then they talked of the work at hand for the morning.

“I have a studio to evolve,” Lynda said, passing a slice of toast to Truedale from the electric contrivance before her, “a woman wants a studio, she feels it will be an inspiration.  She’s a nice little society woman who is bored to death.  She’s written an article or two for a fashion paper and she believes she has discovered herself.  I wish I knew what to put in the place.  She’d scorn the real thing and I hate to compromise when it comes to such things.  And you, Con, what have you that must be done?”

Truedale looked at her earnestly.  “I must meet the lawyer and McPherson,” he said, “but may I come-for a talk, Lyn, afterward?”

“I shall be in my workshop all day, Con, until dinner time to-night.”

The day was a hard one for them both, but womanlike Lynda accepted it and came to its close with less show of wear and tear than did Truedale.  She was restless and nervous.  She worked conscientiously until three and accomplished something in the difficult task the society woman had entrusted her with; then she went to her bedroom and, removing every sign of her craft, donned a pretty house dress and went back to her shop.  She meant to give Truedale every legitimate assistance, but she was never prouder or firmer in her life.  She called the dogs and the cats in; she set the small tea table by the hearth and lighted just fire enough to take the chill from the room and yet leave it sweet and fresh.

At five there was a tap on the door.

“Just in time, Con, for the tea,” she called and welcomed him in.

To find her so calm, cheerful, and lovely, was something of a shock to Truedale.  Had she been in tears, or, had she shown any trace of the suffering he had endured, he would have taken her in his arms and relegated the unfortunate money to the scrap-heap of non-essentials.  But the scene upon which he entered had the effect of chilling him and bringing back the displeasing thought of Lynda’s sacrifice.

“Have you had a hard day, Con?”

“Yes.”

“Drink the tea, and-let me see, you like bread and butter, don’t you, instead of cakes?”

They were silent for a moment while they sipped the hot tea.  Then, raising their eyes, they looked suddenly at each other.

“Lyn, I cannot do without you!”

She coloured deeply.  She knew he did not mean to be selfish-but he was.

“You would be willing even to-accept my sacrifice?” she asked so softly that he did not note the yearning in the tones-the beseeching of him to abdicate the position that, for her, was untenable.

“Anything-anything, Lynda.  The day without you has been-hell.  We’ll get rid of the money somehow.  Now that we both know how little it means, we’ll begin again and-free from Uncle William’s wrong conceptions-Lyn-” He put his cup down and rose quickly.

“Wait!” she whispered, shrinking back into her low armchair and holding him off by her smile of detachment more than by her word of command.

“I-I cannot face life without you,” Truedale spoke hoarsely, “I never really had to contemplate it before.  I need you-must have you.”

He came a step nearer, but Lynda shook her head.

“Something has happened to us, Con.  Something rather tremendous.  We must not bungle.”

“One thing looms high.  Only one, Lyn.”

“Many things do, Con.  They have been crowding thick around me all day.  There are worse things than losing each other!”

“No!” Truedale denied, vehemently.

“Yes.  We could lose ourselves!  This thing that makes you fling aside what went before, this thing that makes me long-oh! how I long, Con-to come to you and forget, this thing-what is it?  It is the holiest thing we know, and unless we guard it sacredly we shall hurt and kill it and then, by and by, Con, we shall look at each other with frightened eyes-over a dead, dead love.”

“Lynda, how-can you?  How dare you say these things when you confess-Oh! my-wife!”

“Because”-and she seemed withdrawing from Truedale as he advanced-“because I have confessed!  You and I, Con, have reached to-day, by different routes, the most important and vital problem.  All my life I have been pushing doors open as I came along.  Sometimes I have only peered in and hurried on; sometimes I have stayed and learned a lesson.  It will always be so with me.  I must know.  I think you are willing not to know unless you are forced.”

Truedale winced and went back slowly to his chair.

“Con, dear, unless you wish it otherwise, I want, as far as possible, to begin from to-day and find out just how much we do mean to each other.  Let us push open the doors ahead until we make sure we both want the same abiding place.  Should you find a spot better, safer for you than this that we thought we knew, I will never hold you by a look or word, dear.”

“And you-Lyn?” Truedale’s voice shook.

“For myself I ask the same privilege.”

“You mean that we-live together, yet apart?”

“Unless you will it otherwise, dear.  In that case, we will close this door and say-good-bye, now.”

Her strength, her tenderness, unmanned Truedale.  Again he felt that call upon him which she had inspired the night of his confession.  Again he rallied to defend her-from her own pitiless sense of honour.

“By heaven!” he cried.  “It shall not be good-bye.  I will accept your terms, live up to them, and dare the future.”

“Good, old Con!  And now, please, dear, go.  I think-I think I am going to cry-a little and”-she looked up quiveringly-“I mustn’t have red eyes at dinner time.  Brace and Betty are coming.  Thank heaven, Con, Betty will make us laugh.”