The Tryst (Annotated) (Grace Livingston Hill Book) (12 page)

Do write to me while I'm down at that tiresome old dump, and don't forget to give Al the enclosed letter, that's a darling. 

Yours for keeps, 

Marjorie.” 

Telegram from Mrs. Horliss-Cole to her sister-in-law at the Mountain House: 

“Have room reserved for Marjorie, who will arrive to-morrow night. See that she meets the right people, and don't let her get interested in any more queer people. If that Al turns up or annoys in any way telegraph or phone immediately. Marjorie will bring things. Keep me posted as to her behaviour. I'm sending Banely along. 

(Signed) Katharine Von Houghten Horliss-Cole.” 

Telegram from Miss Sylvia Cole to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Horliss-Cole: 

“The man's gone. He left this morning. It won't be necessary. Besides, I don't want her. I'm here resting and can't be bothered. Send things by parcel post. 

(Signed) S. Cole.” 

Telegram from Mr. Horliss-Cole to his sister: 

Marjorie and Banely leave on to-night's train. Have room reserved. It will please me greatly if you can distract her attention for a week or so till I can get time to take her on a trip somewhere. 

(Signed) JIM.”

Telegram from Miss Sylvia Cole to her brother, James Horliss-Cole: 

“All right, only don't hold me responsible if she runs away. 

(Signed) S. Cole.” 

As John Treeves sank back in his seat in the train it was as if a great burden had rolled away, a relief come upon him. He cast off the thought of the ghoulish old man as one casts away a disagreeable duty done, and he felt free to give himself to the thought of the life that lay before him. His conscience was entirely satisfied with the forgiveness he had given to the old unrepentant soul who was his uncle, and even the pang of pity that had occasionally stirred his wrathful young heart had been amply compensated, he considered. That he should remain longer in that atmosphere of worldliness and superficial show for the sake of satisfying an abnormal pride in a man who was on the brink of the grave did not appeal to him as either a necessity or a virtue. He had done his duty, more than done it, by answering the old man's summons and by giving a tentative promise that he might return later. 

Now as he sat back and looked out of the window on the rapidly passing landscape, he felt somewhat like a person who has entered a vast amphitheatre and taken a seat before the great curtain about to rise on the most important scene of his life. He felt a breathless attention and wonder as to what his eyes should see when the first act should begin. This wavering beautiful landscape of mountain and valley and soft fringe of pine with a glimmer of silver lake in the distance was like the beautiful painted curtain before the stage, and of interest because it made a fitting frontispiece for that which was to follow. In spite of his reason he found himself wondering what was behind the beauty for him in the days that were to come, as one wonders what is being arranged to be seen when the curtain rises, and what the players are doing behind the scenes in the minutes of waiting before the hour has struck. 

For the next few days were to decide his future. Of that he was as certain as if a great court had so decreed it. 

And now his thoughts must needs go backward, back behind those terrible days of France, of horror and uncertainty and blackness of night and pain and loss; back to a time five years ago -- five years in a few days now. His birthday! And he, at his mother’s request, had come home to spend it with her. 

How frail she had looked and sweet and young as she stood to receive him with open arms and a smile so wonderful upon her lips, and about her eyes. Eyes which even then must have known the secret of the brief space that was to be hers yet here upon the earth. There had been something unusual about her. He had felt it even as he took her in his arms and laid his face against hers. He felt she had changed in the brief few weeks since he had left home for the fall term. She did not look sick, and her old vitality seemed to be as great as ever, no failing of breath, nor pallor; only a lovely fragility, a light in her eyes as if she had seen further into mysteries than others see, a something that made him glad he had come home, even though it had at first seemed an unnecessary extravagance after such a short absence; a great trembling in his heart for the future -- the future that was now his to walk alone in a world without her. 

But that day she had not let him feel sad. She had blessed him continually with her smile, and the look in her eyes, and she had been ready to make the most of every minute, for she had known he must return by the midnight train in order not to miss important classes. She had drawn him into the little cosy living room, with its table set for the evening meal they would have together that night when they should return from the day she had planned. There were the dishes he had always loved, with a bit of a flower in a clear glass vase with a slender stem. He knew the flower was the single product of the plant in the sunny window, tended and fostered for this occasion. How every little petal stood out now in dear relief, the details of that dear day. There had been other days after that, many and beautiful, but that day stood out as a notable landmark, a kind of turning point in his career. 

On the table stood the willow basket already packed, the basket they had taken so many times before on little pleasant excursions together, sometimes alone, sometimes with one or two other choice friends, or again with some one who needed a rest and a bit of cheering. It was all tender and beautiful, his memory of her. He had always known it, of course, but as he reviewed it now he took in the lovely fact as he had never taken it before, and a wave of indignation went over him against the worthless old millionaire who had presumed to trample upon her. Not that he had ever been able really to hurt her, only it hurt him to think he had tried; to know that the old man could never be made to understand what exquisite holiness he had blasphemed. 

There was a rug and a book, and his old cap and sweater ready also, and his mother was wearing her tramping boots and a dark blue skirt and blouse that made her look so young and girlish, vri.th the little soft gray felt hat on her shining hair that would escape in little soft rings about her face and neck. 

It had been a wonderful day, a day like this one, with sparkling air and a sky of softest blue that warmed and mellowed the red glow and the golden shimmer of autumn and parried the very thought of death that their radiant beauty foretold. They had walked to “the mountain” as they, the villagers, called it, a favorite walk with them since his childhood, and one where they had spent many a glad day together. It had seemed so natural to turn their steps that way that neither had even questioned where they were going. They just walked along together, conscious that all things troublesome were for the moment pushed back -- or forward, and they were here, just they two, together for the day. There would be separations, and sorrow and disappointment perhaps, but they were not for this hour. Here was to be only peace. 

It was up this mountain she had taken him when he was a little fellow, the day before he went first to school, and had read to him, and played with him, and finally talked with him about the deeper things of life which he would meet out in that world to which school was to be the opening door. It was here they had come the day she told him about his father who had left them before he could remember, about his great love for his mother, and the wonderful days they had had together before he was taken away. Here they had come when he was about to unite with the church, the little old brick church in the village where his grandfather had preached, and she had talked with him earnestly about the great step which he was about to take, and together they had kneeled on the moss at the foot of a sheltering tree while she prayed for him -- such a prayer! He could hear the tones of her voice even now in his soul though the words were gone beyond his memory. 

Here, too, she had brought him the day her first story was accepted with an accompanying check that would make the nest egg for his college course, and sprung the surprise upon him after the day was almost over. And there were other days -- the time when he was about to leave home for college -- and again when he was considering whether he should go to the theological seminary and prepare for the ministry. 

But this day, this twenty-first birthday of his, that was to mark a turning point in his life, a time when he should come definitely face to face with himself and his own beliefs and opinions as over against what he had been taught, he had felt underneath all the joy a sense of uneasiness back in his mind; a knowledge that there was that in his heart that would pain his mother if she knew it, and a wonder whether he would be able to keep it from her clear searching gaze. Her eyes had always been able to read his face, and his eyes had always given back glad answer to her question when he had been absent for a time. Now, however, he was conscious for the first time that he was keeping something back, something which as yet he had not given a name, and it had made him restless and ill at ease, even in his joy of seeing her. 

Their walk had been much like other walks in its quiet converse; just items of the way; about a bird that flitted across the sky with a touch of silver darting across its wings in the sunlight; about the mass of color against the foot of the hill, and the tall pine that was their trysting place, far and quiet above the town, with a convenient rock for shelter from wind or sun or rain; about the braided center of the brook they paused to watch crossing the bridge, where a clutter of little golden beech leaves had patterned themselves gently in with the dimples of the stream. 

The day had been much like other days, quiet and peaceful and dear. They had climbed to the top. He had noticed that his mother's step did not lag, and that the color in her face was clear, and her eyes were bright as if her interest in the day was vital, and as young as his, if not even more so, for indeed he had felt old that day, coming twenty-one, and with the burden of dawning individuality and doubt in the back of his mind. 

They had eaten their delectable lunch like nectar and ambrosia after the university eating club. She had made angel cake as light as down, a great treat, because he knew it took eleven eggs, and eggs were dear. They were part of the price of his education -- the eggs she raised and sold. And there was a little cup of fruit salad, oranges and grapes and other fair fruits. He could recall the delicious flavor of it all, and little chicken sandwiches cut in rounds. He smiled with a sigh as he remembered she had excused the extravagance by saying she had made a bread pudding of the edges. How they had had to think of every little trifle like that in order to get through and make both ends meet! 

And there was that little good-for-nothing old man, rolling in luxury, sitting idly in his chair and cursing everything that foiled him, sending down on his tray every meal more than would have kept the two of them for a whole day, having his clawlike old fingernails manicured and his withered old countenance massaged; and his mother, his exquisite little mother, sweetly starving herself to death that she might make angel cake for her son’s twenty-first birthday!

Not that he wanted any of that money, even though half of it rightly belonged to his father, who had been cheated out of his inheritance by the scheming old brother! No, he was proud that he and his mother had gotten along and held their own without assistance, but he could not forget that the uncle had refused help in the first terrible need. 

It had not been until after the napkins were folded and the basket repacked that she had settled back against the tree trunk and looked down into his eyes, as he stretched below her on the grass and said with that gentle voice of hers that somehow drew confession from the most reluctant lips, 

“Now, son, what is it?” 

Slowly, hesitatingly, feeling his way for the words because he had not allowed the thoughts to take definite form before, he had told her of the change that was creeping over him. He apologized for it on the ground that he supposed it was because he was beginning to be a man. He tried to belittle the significance of it, to make light of it, to treat it as if it were a mere passing phantasy, but her clear eyes saw through all his subterfuges, and he knew they did, and finally it was out in faulty hesitating sentences. He did not feel as he used to feel. He was not so sure of things. The old faith had been shaken. The things they had read and talked about together were losing their force with him, the arguments of learned men were presenting a strong and unbroken front before his faltering protest. The Bible no longer stood the matchless and perfect book of God. There were portions of it that his reason could no longer accept, although his heart was eager, anxious, for her sake, if for no other, to ding to it as long as he lived. There were glaring errors of chronology, contradictory statements, impossibilities of action, absurd dogmas --! 

Little by little she drew it all from him with her strong true eyes that would not be deceived, yet seemed to hurt so as they listened. As he thought of it now at the distance of the years he could seem to see her eyes quiver and cringe as before a blow at each new revelation of his change of heart, yet she had not flinched. Those eyes had looked him bravely back with even a quiver of a smile on the lips that had grown white. She summoned strength to probe him further. Had he lost the sense of Christ? Did he mean that he no longer believed in the Deity of Christ? No, he hadn’t quite gone so far yet, he owned, but she saw beyond his doubt and knew that he was wavering in that direction. 

Her lashes had drooped low on her white cheeks and she had been silent awhile struggling with her own emotion. He knew she felt she must not let him see the shock it had been to her. Perhaps he had not known it so surely then as now that it was a terrible shock. It was nearly five years ago, and he was young then -- ages younger, it seemed, than now. 

How she had swept those long lashes up at him suddenly with a piercing look of deep indignation in her eyes, and a tremble of wrath in her voice as she asked: