The Tryst (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill
be too easy to get lost in New York and the time is too short to risk it. The chauffeur can take you about awhile in the car and tell you the points of interest. Miss Cole will be getting uneasy if you are not back here by half-past four. Come, we'll consider that settled."
Patricia, as she followed her employer through the luxurious period-rooms out to the car, felt suddenly depressed. She was glad, of course, that the matter was settled and that she had found something so altogether respectable as being companion to an old lady, and that she had found it so soon. But somehow there was that in the curt tone of Mrs. Horliss-Cole which put her into another class entirely. Nothing unkind. Oh, no! But a certain careless condescension in her manner as she swept along her wide halls, giving a last direction to the maid, calling the man-servant to order for allowing a chair to stand at a certain forbidden angle. It seemed that when she moved everything else had to move also, and now they were all following her, the man, the maid, and even her daughter, hurrying with long annoyed strides:
"I should like to know. Mamma, where I come in? I've been waiting all the time while you did that tiresome telephoning, and I told you I had to see you——!"
They drifted into the car and Patricia perceived that she was expected to get in also.
It seemed strange to ride out through those stem grilled gateways where a few moments before she had stood, a young, frightened stranger, watching this same car and this same unknown lady. And now she was in her employ and practically pledged to remain for the winter. She felt somehow like a little caged thing. Why had she not waited to see the great new city first, the city which she had always longed to see and be a part of? It would have been so delightful to go about it as she pleased and search out all the places of which she had read and heard. But of course she must not think of that now. She ought just to be glad she had the position.
Marjorie and her mother were talking earnestly. They paid no more attention to her presence than if she had been the tassel on the silk curtain of the car. It was something about a young man of whom Mrs. Horliss-Cole did not approve. She told her daughter that the thing must stop right where it was; there must be no more correspondence, nor even a farewell meeting. Marjorie must arrange the matter herself, and not make it necessary for her parents to get into it, or there would be no coming out for her that winter. She would simply be sent away to school for another year, where she could be watched most carefully. The young man appeared to be something connected with professional athletics, a prize-fighter even perhaps, and Marjorie had met him during her past year at school. He had come as coach for her basketball team. The mother had bitter blame for the teachers who allowed her daughter an opportunity for intimacy with one so low down in the social scale, and nothing but contempt for the girl who had so lowered herself as to want to make a friend of one whom her family despised. Patricia, watching Mrs. Horliss-Cole's lips, was reminded of her own mother's mouth when she was disapproving of her, so cold and haughty. Sitting there in a stranger's car, driving swiftly toward a life of service for a whimsical old lady whom she had never seen, Patty wondered if all mothers had mouths like that. If she ever married and had a daughter, would her mouth look like that when she talked to her? Could she possibly imagine herself as getting so far away from a dear daughter of her own as to talk in that cold, hard tone to her?
She eyed the other girl furtively, the girl with the big, bold, handsome eyes and the sullen mouth, and felt sorry for her. After all, perhaps all girls were misunderstood by their mothers, and perhaps the mothers were misunderstood, too. She could see that it might not be very pleasant for Mrs. Horliss-Cole to have her daughter corresponding with an embryo prize-fighter; but then, perhaps the mother had never made a friend of her daughter and therefore the girl was thrown on her own resources. She almost thought she would like to be friends with this queer, haughty girl. She reminded her much of a former roommate at college. But of course this Marjorie wouldn’t consider making a friend of her aunt's companion. She almost giggled a little to herself then as she thought of it. Companion! Companion with a capital C! How odd it was. And if she hadn't happened to have her little world upset back there a couple of days ago she would at this minute probably have been playing tennis or eating lunch on the terrace, or driving in somebody's wonderful racing car, or doing some one of a number of other delightful things at that house party. Evelyn would have been there, and they would have been going about together, apparently loving sisters, and she would have been accepting Hal Barron's attentions in a perfectly good sisterly innocence and never have suspected the hate in Evelyn's heart.
Patty awoke with a start to the fact that Marjorie and her mother had ceased their conversation and the girl was staring at her with open intent. Suddenly, without meaning to in the least, Patty smiled at her, a ravishing smile of perfect equality and good fellowship, and after a second's surprise and haughty hesitation Miss Marjorie Horliss-Cole allowed a flicker of an answering smile to light up her own big melancholy eyes so that they were really beautiful.
But Mrs. Horliss-Cole was speaking now, as if she had just remembered the existence of her new dependent. She was not altogether sure, but this pretty young upstart needed a little setting down and showing of her place. And so in a very cool tone she began to talk about wages and duties, and to lay down the law pretty thoroughly about what Miss Sylvia liked and disliked until Patty was wholly indignant and a trifle frightened and wished she might get out and run away – only there was the great city, and night coming on with no money – and the impossibility of going back to her home.
Nevertheless there was something sweet and innately dignified about Patty, childish as she looked and sometimes seemed, that made it impossible to quite snub her. She had a way of opening her eyes wide and looking straightly and innocently through one that somehow froze the would-be freezer, and left herself untouched like a flower that did not understand it was being looked down upon.
At the station Patty was not allowed to go for her suitcase herself, but had to surrender her check and sit under a long lecture to Marjorie from her mother, while the chauffeur went after it. Somehow it made her feel like a prisoner, and she was glad indeed when Mrs. Horliss-Cole and her daughter were left in front of a large club building, and at last she was whirled away through a maze of city streets and out upon Riverside Drive.
The chauffeur pointed out Grant's Tomb and a number of other points of interest, at first condescendingly, but finally with a touch of respect in his voice as he saw that Patty held herself aloof, and presently she was taken back to the great house on Fifth Avenue and taken in charge by the maid she had seen before who took her up to a pleasant bedroom and told her to make herself comfortable and rest awhile until Miss Cole was ready to see her.
Patty took off her coat and hat, readjusted the soft embroidered crepe overblouse, washed her face and hands, and rear-ranged her hair. Then she sat down with a fresh magazine to await her summons, but the maid presently returned to say that Miss Cole did not care to see her until it was necessary. Patty waited until the door was shut and the maid's footsteps could no longer be heard down the polished hall, then she said out loud, quite viciously, "She's just an old crab, I know, and I wish I was back” – she caught her breath and her lip trembled – "back in college!” she finished bravely, and then throwing herself down on the pleasant-looking bed she buried her face in the pillow and had a good cry. After which she fell asleep and dreamed that she had caught the last ship for South America and was sailing to meet her father.
She awoke with a start to find the maid bending over her with a tray in her hand:
"Madam says you’re to have your dinner up here, and you will be ready to start in half an hour.”
She set the tray down on a little table, drew up a chair, adjusted a shaded electric lamp, and left the room.
Patty sat up and watched dazedly, and then as the door closed after her felt that she must rush out and bring her back and beg her to help her get out of this awful situation. But she didn't. She was a good sport, was Patricia. She remembered just in time how her father used to call her his "little Pat” with that tender, proud accent that meant he knew she would always have courage to "carry on,” and instead she got up, washed her face again just to get the sleep out of her eyes, smoothed her hair, adjusted her pretty toque, and sat down to the inviting tray. Being very hungry she ate with appreciation and realized that she felt better. After all it was as good as a play what she