The Tryst. Grace Livingston Hill
thrashing the air vigorously with a frail claw of a hand. “Is this the way that paragon of a mother taught you to behave to your elders, you young rascal? Hespur! Here!”
Hespur, the obedient, advanced coolly like a well-trained animal that was set to do the impossible, but was swept aside like a toy by the strong arm of the young giant, who wheeled and strode toward the door:
“That will be about all!” he said as he paused with the knob of the door in his hand. I never allow my mother to be spoken of in that tone. I will bid you good afternoon and good-bye, mister Treeves.”
The old man sat agap in wonder. Not in years had anyone dared to oppose him like this! Nay, even to reprove him. He was too angry and astonished for articulation. Old Hespur stood in line with him watching with admiration the retreat of the young visitor, looking down at his arm that had been gripped in the giant vise, as if an honor had been conferred upon him. This surely was a young gentleman to be proud of, a true chip of the old block!
Then while Calvin Treeves still stared and spluttered for words, the door opened, and the young man went out and down the hall.
The old man was stunned for a second, then turned to his faithful servitor:
“Hespur! Go! Bring him back!” he pleaded like a child, who has been punished and is suddenly repentant.
The young man pausing before the elevator door was suddenly confronted by the old servant, bowing before him with distress in his face.
“Oh, sir! He is sorry! He didn't mean it! Come back, sir, quick! The doctor said he must not be excited, sir. He might have a stroke. He's a mighty sick old man, is Mr. Treeves, and he don't rightly know hoar disagreeable he gets.”
“Did he say he was sorry?" asked the young man, looking at the servant keenly.
“No, sir, he didn't say he was sorry. But he meant it, sir. He wouldn't rightly know how to say he was sorry. He never made a practice of saying he was sorry, sir!"
“I should say not!" said the nephew with flashing eyes and quivering upper lip, the kind of quiver that denotes a hurt soul; but he followed the serving man back albeit with his head held high and a haughty, stem chin. He came into the room once more and stood at attention.
Again that gleam of triumph in the old eye:
“You young rapscallion!" breathed the old man with a chuckle. "You certainly are hot headed enough!"
"Sir, no one may speak so of my mother without having to account for it. If you called me here to insult her holy memory, it is time that I went. You gave her a lifetime of insult and if it had not been for her forgiving spirit I would not have been here to-day."
“Oh!" chortled the old man,” She had an eye to my sending for you some day, did she? Rather long-headed, wasn't she?”
The old servitor started anxiously and looked toward the young man whose set jaw grew more stem and manly with every word, and who was looking straight into the wicked old eyes with an unflinching gaze:
"Sir," said the clear young voice, “it was when I was a child, and I had told her I hated you and would never forgive you for the way you had treated her, and she said that no soul ought to go into eternity unforgiven and I must not refuse you that if you ever asked.”
The old man blanched as if he had been struck by the words, and then a wave of purple rage rolled up over his withered face:
“Well, wait till I ask then!” he roared out. “I want no old woman's talk about eternity! I sent for you to-day because I wanted you, not because I wanted forgiveness. Sit down, young man, and let's get to business! I tell you I won't be annoyed this way. You've got to do as I want you to do. I'm an old man, and I can't stand this excitement!"
He fumbled around for his handkerchief and mopped his congested forehead, panting for breath, as the wave of rage passed away and left him weak and feeble.
“Sir, you've got to apologize for the way you spoke of my mother or I’ll never sit down. I know of no business I want to talk over with you, and if your business is not worth an apology I would better be going."
The old man stopped mopping his face and stared at his nephew.
“Apologize!" he muttered. “Ha! Hal Apologize! Why, son, I never apologized to anyone in my life. You don't expect me to begin now——!"
“Very well! I will bid you good afternoon ——”
“Stop!" spluttered Calvin Treeves. “Stop! I apologize! Now, sit down!" He fairly shouted it.
The young man sat down sternly erect on the edge of the chair, but the effect was the same as when standing. Calvin Treeves realized this, and fairly whimpered his disappointment:
“Take this other chair and be comfortable!" There was almost a pleading note in the dictatorial old voice.
“What is your business, Mr. Treeves?"
“Call me Uncle ——” crooned the old man.
“What is your business, Uncle Calvin?"
The old gleam of triumph came back:
“That's better, nephew, that's better. Now we can talk. Well, my business is this. You see I'm all alone in the world. I'm getting to be an old man, and I'm sick. I want some one to belong to me, in whom I can live my life over again. In short, I want to get acquainted with you and feel that there is some one in the world to whom I can turn.”
The old man stopped and eyed the younger keenly, anxiously.
The young man looked up with the stern look still about his mouth and eyes:
“I'm afraid that is impossible!”
“Why?" cringed the old man as if he had been struck.
“Because of the way in which you treated my mother. You let her struggle on all those years when I was a child, and never offered to even help her to find something to do to earn her living and mine till I was old enough to help. You even refused to help pay the funeral expenses of your own brother, and when mother asked you to lend her enough to pay the interest on the mortgage of our house for one year until she could earn enough to pay you back, you told her she was an interloper and had cheated my father out of a fair start in life. Afterward, when my mother lay sick in the hospital for weeks and I was cared for by strangers, you never lifted your finger. Do you think that I could care to live on intimate terms with one who did all that?”
The old man seemed to wither and shrink before the scathing tone of the young man. His thin hands like yellow parchment clung claw-like to each other, and he cringed before the young eyes that condemned him.
“You are very harsh in your judgment of me!" he put in plaintively. "Your father was engaged to a woman both beautiful and rich who would have made his life a different thing ———!”
“Knowing my mother, I can only rejoice for my father's sake that he married my mother instead of this woman!”
Young voices are so cold and clear in condemnation. The old man shivered.
“I never saw your mother!” he whimpered placatingly.
“That was your fault,” scathed the son.
“I’ll say this much for her, she did well in bringing you up.”
The young man lifted scornful eyes.
“You know nothing about me; how can you say that?”
The cunning gleamed in the old eyes again:
"I know all about you. I’ve followed your career ever since you entered the army. I know you and am proud of you, and I want you for my own.”
There was a curious pathetic hunger in the old voice that the younger man could not ignore. Because he was the son of such a mother, he knew he must not pass it by.
“Why did you do that?” he asked at last after a long pause