The Tryst. Grace Livingston Hill
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was one of my name to go over. I had no son myself, and was too old to have any part myself, but – you were there – and I followed the war through you. I had a man over there finding out everything you did. I knew every turn you took. I know all the honors you won. I’m proud of you and the way you have honored the name of Treeves.”
There was still that plaintive appeal for love in the old voice, the wistful look mingling with the cunning in the spoiled old eyes. John Treeves looked up and pondered and then spoke:
“I could not give you my” – he carefully considered the words – “affection, nor my” – he considered again – “confidence, sir, so long as you feel as you do about my mother. I think, sir, there would be always a wall between us.”
A look of cunning twinkled into the little, old eyes:
"Perhaps by knowing you I should learn to know her better and think better of her. I have thought better of her since following your career. Anyhow” – in a fretful tone – “that was a long time ago. Let us put it all by and begin again. If I made a mistake then I can’t right it now, can I? Suppose you begin and tell me all about yourself. I shall doubtless get glimpses of your mother through that. Go ahead! I want to know all!”
The young man's lips looked stubborn at first. Even the old servant could see that the order was distasteful, that to talk of himself was never a favorite employment, and to talk about his sacred life with his beloved mother seemed a sacrilege in this presence. The fine brows drew down lower, and the whole face looked ominous. The little old man sat huddled in his pillows and watched fearfully. He wanted to conquer, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life before. This strong vital young man with his beauty and his independence, his audacity and his impudence had in these few minutes become of immense value to his lonely frightened old life. For he was frightened. He had even begun to admit it to himself in the still watches of the night when reality clutched him and made him face the future. He knew he had been a bad old man and a bad young man. He had had his own way all his life, had got himself riches and made others poor, had torn a tempestuous supremacy through his family and his neighborhood and his whole world and made everybody who did not fear him hate him – everybody save old Hespur, whom he had abused more than all. He knew, and wanted to buy back a little of his spent happiness by grafting to himself a young, strong, beautiful life; wanted to buy a whole Heaven for himself by making a late reparation to the child of the woman he had ignored in her trouble and given nothing but contempt. He wanted to do it in his own lordly way and not to enter Heaven by the lowly door of repentance as he knew the rest of the world must do. And so he sat and quavered and hung upon the words of the young man, his nephew, frightened lest here too he should fail, yet determined that he should not.
At last the nephew looked up:
“What do you want to know?” he asked reluctantly.
“Anything, everything that you can remember,” cackled the uncle joyously.
The young brows drew down and the young voice was cold:
"That would be impossible!” he said in that tone of haughty withdrawal. "There is very little that you have a right to know. You forfeited all that long ago.”
The old man crouched as if he were hit and shivered in his padded silken robe.
“I will tell you a few things,” went on the nephew.
“My mother and I lived in two rooms over a bakery for a long time and mother had to sell bread to get bread for herself and me! But she kept me in school as soon as I was old enough and every evening she went over my studies with me. Sundays we went to church, and in between services we took long walks in the woods when the weather was good and she talked to me of life. I shall never expect to hear greater wisdom from any lips than the things she said to me. And she was but a girl when she began to teach me! It was so that when I went to college my teachers wondered where I had got my advanced ideas, and how I came to be so well trained in concentration, and it was all my mother's doings!”
He looked up, and the old man was still huddled silently in his pillows, with his bright wild eyes peering out piercingly, watching, listening, being condemned!
“She slaved at fine sewing and embroidery half the night to keep me in school and prepare me for college, and she went without everything she could without my finding out, to spend the money on me. I even caught her going without the necessary plain food herself in order to have me well fed. She did all that, and denied herself everything possible, and do you think I could easily sit down and make friends with a relative who let her do all that for his own brother's son, and was amply able to have helped her? Not that she would have accepted charity. What she needed was a friend and a little kindly advice just to feel there was somebody back of her ready to lift the burden if she should fall under it. She would have paid with interest anything that had been loaned to her. But instead she was compelled to borrow from her own vitality, and you, you were to blame! You are a bad old man!”
The cool young voice pounded out each word like blows of a hammer driving in a spike. The old man seemed to shrink and shrivel before each one.
“You shan't say that!” he snarled. “I never did anything wrong.”
“It’s not what you did, it's what you refused to do!”
The old eyes quailed:
“Well, perhaps, I can make it up now!” he whimpered.
“No. It's too late. You can never make up what you missed doing.”
The old man sighed and lifted a trembling claw aimlessly to his lips as if to steady them:
"Well, well, go on with your story ——!" he evaded.
“There isn't much more. I went to work vacations and nights and mornings as soon as I was old enough and lifted as much burden as I could, and then she would have me go to college. I worked my way through that – and Seminary ——”
“What were you preparing for? Anything special?” There was deep interest in the old eyes. He wanted to avoid getting back to the discussion of his own faults.
The young man hesitated and spoke the words as if they were something sacred:
“I was preparing for the ministry."
“What?" said the old man suddenly erect. “You mean a diplomatic service?”
“Oh, no,” said the nephew, “theology!”
“You don't mean you were going to be a preacher! Oh, the devil!” and he finished with a cackle from the tombs.
The young man fixed him with a stern eye.
“Oh, well, go on with your story! The war came along and spoiled you for any such milk-and-water woman's job as that! I know the rest. Enough for the present. We'll talk about the war after dinner. Hespur, take the young gentleman to his room. He'll want to prepare for dinner, and I'm going down to the dining-room myself to-night to do him honor. Hear that, Hespur? You can hunt out my evening clothes when you came back. That's all, nephew! Go and get ready for dinner!”
Then quite naturally John Treeves found himself following the old servant to a suite of rooms directly across the hall from his uncle's.
“I hope you'll be entirely comfortable," said old Hespur adoringly. “You'll find plenty of hot water for your bath, and you've only to ring and I'll come. Would you like me to unpack your suitcase, sir, and lay out your things?”
“No,” said John Treeves with a weary smile, “I haven't much and I'm used to doing for myself, A bath will feel good, however.”
Nevertheless, when he was left to himself he did not immediately proceed to the white-tiled bathroom whose door stood so invitingly open, but strode to the window, thrust his fingers through his hair, with his elbow on the upper window sash and stood staring out into the beauty of the hotel grounds, and off at the purple misty mountains in the distance. But he was not seeing the beauty. He was thinking of what he had just said to his uncle, and his blood was still boiling over the remembrance of his mother and