The Tryst (Annotated) (Grace Livingston Hill Book) (28 page)

Miss Sylvia sat quite still in the back of the car and watched Patty. Patty did not turn around to talk because she dreaded the look in Miss Cole's eyes, and Miss Cole did not speak because she rather dreaded the reproach in Patty's eyes and voice. In fact, she had almost repented her of her treachery. It was a shabby trick to play the girl to bring her out and cage her in front of a young man whom she evidently admired and would not recognize, to listen to his talking with another girl who all too evidently admired him. Miss Cole was cross with herself and was trying to plan some way to atone. Presently a young man came out from the office, putting on a shabby coat as he came. He had great dark eyes and hair of a Michael Angelo drawing, heavy and curling, over his forehead, though clipped close behind as became an American. He came respectfully up to the car, giving a passing admiration to the beautiful girl in the front seat, but speaking to Miss Cole in a soft foreign accent: 

“Mr. Hor'-Cor' he say you betta come in office. It too col' out here. He say come inside!” He had wonderful teeth when he smiled and his smile was ravishing and confiding. Patty was interested in watching his face light up. 

“Thank you, I’d rather stay in the fresh air!” said Miss Cole crisply. 

The young messenger seemed troubled and lingered. 

“Yes --nice air-- if you got good warm coat! I, myself, feel not cold. But lady sit still! Get cold! Get sick! Mr. Hor'-Cor' he say come in!” 

“Well, I'm not coming in!” snapped Miss Cole decidedly. “Who are you? Are you one of the workmen?” 

The young man smiled complacently. 

“I am Angelo. Yes, I work. Big building back this one. I work good, hard. I get good wage. I have money in bank. Bime by nexta week I getta marry. My girl over there!” He pointed across the water to the girl. “See! She see me!” He lifted a shabby cap and waved to her. She fluttered a hand and dropped back to her work. “She nica girl. She work, I work. We make good money. We getta marry!” 

“H'm! Do you think that's wise till you have enough to keep her so she won't have to work?” 

He opened his large eyes wide: 

“My girl no work after she my wife. She keep house. She take a boarders, mebbe one, two, five, and we makka more mon'. We be rich some day and have a car ourselve.”

He smiled with anticipation, a real dreamer's smile. 

“Are you going to live in one of those little houses?” asked Miss Cole curiously. “I don't see how you could keep boarders in one of those, they are so small. Have you bought your house?” 

“Oh, na, we go to live with my girl, her people! Her father get leg cut off last month in belt, leth' belt catch. Woof! He go in! No leg any more. He not able to worruk hard any more. We live there and pay money. Yes, we live second house that far row over where that man is walking. Red flower in window. That’s how we tell house.” 

“But, you couldn't all live there! And keep boarders too!” said Miss Cole aghast. “Why, how many rooms do they have?” 

“Four room!” he answered proudly. “One room, me an' my wife.” He spoke the word with tenderness, numbering on his fingers. “One room my girl's moth' and fath'. One room kitch' where we all eat, mange! One room boarders sleep!” he finished triumphantly. “Big room boarders sleep, get eight bed in!” 

“Mercy!” 

Miss Cole's face was a study of horror, and the chauffeur wore a kindly superior smile of amusement, but the young Italian was not noticing. His pleasant smile had turned into a frown of anger as he watched a tall, thick-set man with a black mustache and dashing attire come whistling down the opposite edge of the wharf with his hands in his pockets. He had the air of owning the place and being well pleased with himself. The slim, young, artistic hands of the Italian clinched at his sides, and his jaw set in an ugly line. Miss Cole asked him some more questions and he turned and tried to answer, but it was evident his thoughts were all across the strip of water and his rage was at boiling point. 

He watched the heavy-set man stamp up the steps into the office where the girl sat pounding the typewriter. 

Patty kept her eyes on the little scene as if it were a moving picture. The girl looked up furtively as the man came in, and then bent closer to her work, turning her shoulder away from the door and appearing not to notice the entrance. The man went over to his desk and took up some papers, but kept turning and looking at the girl, who continued to write rapidly, nervously. 

There was a little digression behind her and Patty perceived without turning around that Mr. Horliss-Cole, Marjorie and John Treeves had returned and were standing by the car speaking to Angelo. John Treeves shook hands with the foreigner and spoke to him in his own language, telling him he had passed through Italy just a few months before. Angelo's face brightened for an instant and he tried to respond with his smile, but it was only half hearted, and his eyes returned their troubled gaze across to the warehouse. 

Patty wished the glass room was not so far away. She did not like the attitude of that man over there. He had come over by the girl’s desk and was bending over her. Suddenly the girl made a dive under his arm and stood away from him with her back against the wall, her whole attitude one of defiance. There appeared to be no one else but those two in the building. The man reached out his hand as if to grasp the girl’s arm. 

Angelo quivered and started forward, gripping his hands: 

“My God! I kill dat boss some day!” they heard him murmur. 

The girl had darted across the wide floor to the foot of an unrailed stair that led straight up from floor to floor. The man sprang after and she hurled herself up the stairs. Their figures showed like tiny silhouettes against the background of the bright morning as they passed in front of the great windows, stair after stair, till they came to the top floor. The slender girl was gaining on the man who labored on behind with great passionate strides. The little group of watchers on the opposite shore were breathless, forgetting one another in the scene before them, it all passed so rapidly. No one had noticed the noon whistle that summoned the men in swarms from the building like black ants streaming away for their dinners. Some lingered about the Big Boss's car watching also. No one had seen Angelo disappear or noticed the circle of ripples on the edge of the water where his lithe body had slipped in. His dark curls were too far under water to attract attention --for Angelo could swim and he had gone to save his girl! 

The girl staggered to the top, half a flight above her pursuer, but did not pause even to glance back. She whirled about the top of the stair and flung herself forward toward the great open door at the front, where the iron hook from the block and tackle dangled, swaying lightly just shoulder high. Her pace quickened as she came, her purpose all too plain. With outstretched hands she sprang for the rope, caught it for a second, but could not cling. With a sharp scream of terror it slipped from her fingers, and the ugly hook by some twist of the rope struck her full in the face and knocked her down limp and senseless into the water. 

It all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that no one had the sense to do anything to stop the tragedy, and only John Treeves seemed alive to the fact that it was not yet over. He dashed his hat and coat from him as he ran and sprang into the water, making splendid strokes toward the spot where the girl had gone down. On the opposite wharf a dark wet figure like a black spider was rapidly climbing up a slippery way, and presently slid around by the back door and entered the building, but no one saw nor cared, for every eye was riveted now on the high open doorway where the girl's pursuer had just staggered panting up and stood looking down in a daze for a moment. 

Suddenly, out from the group by the car there hissed a bullet, so close to Patty's ear that she thought at first it had touched her. The next instant the man at the open door threw up his hands and dropped, huddled together on the very edge of the threshold, one arm and a foot dangling over. A great cry went up from the crowd that suddenly surged around everywhere. Many started to run around the end of the inlet which was quite a distance, and one or two jumped into the water. No one seemed to have any definite idea of where the bullet had come from except Patty, who had a distinct remembrance of eyes like Angelo's and a face that was different somehow from the Angelo who had just talked with them and smiled. She did not mention Angelo, however, only saying, “It was a man who stood just here by the machine.” 

“Oh, it was that dago all right!” said the chauffeur, unbent from his servile silence. “I heard him say he was going to kill him. These foreigners all go armed, and they haven't a bit of sense. Now he'll have to swing for it, and what has he gained?” 

“Well, I think he was thoroughly justified!” declared Miss Cole excitedly. “James, I don't see why you don't do something about a state of things like this! You oughtn't to have a man around that needed killing.” 

“Well, I don't see any sense in Mr. Treeves getting all soaked on a day like this for a silly girl who wanted to commit suicide,” pouted Marjorie. “Of course it was perfectly splendid of him. Papa, I don't see why you don't send a boat out after him.” 

Everything was confusion for a few minutes and nobody listened to anybody else. Mr. Horliss-Cole, his face white and stem, stood on the steps of the main office and gave directions to which nobody paid the slightest heed. Men hurried here and there excitedly, giving other directions, and shouting wild speculative opinions. 

The girl had gone down twice before John Treeves reached her side and started back with her to shore. 

“Oh, he is bringing her over here!” said Marjorie turning her head away. “How horrid! I hate dead people. Couldn't we drive around the other end of the building?” But nobody paid any attention to her, and John Treeves, with eager hands to help now, brought his burden on and laid her down only a few feet from the car. Some one brought the robes from the car and covered her and Treeves with several others began working over her, A boy started a fire of bits of wood and the smoke of it puffed over across the car and came in their 

eyes much to Marjorie’s discontent. Miss Cole sat up alertly and wanted to get out and go and help, but was restrained: 

“For mercy's sake, Aunt Sil, she's only a poor stenographer, don't worry yourself. Let's get out of here as quick as we can. Somebody go tell Mr. Treeves to hurry up. He'll catch his death of cold. He better get into a fur robe and get home as quick as possible.” 

But John Treeves was not worrying about his health. He had not been through the war for nothing. A little wet and a little cold did not trouble him. He was working with all the skill at his command to bring life back to the pale girl and he paid no attention to the messenger from Marjorie. 

Someone had gathered up the man who had been shot and put him on a stretcher. They were taking him to the immaculate hospital. The report went around that he was not dead, but shot through the head somewhere, probably fatally. They were bringing Angelo in handcuffs, all dripping, with miserable eyes searching the wharf for his girl. He was shivering but he did not notice it. His heavy hair hung down over his forehead in a great silken wave. They brought him over to where the girl lay and he knelt down all manacled as he was and kissed the hem of her sodden blue serge skirt and wept aloud. He did not realize that they had taken him for a murderer, nor care. He only minded the handcuffs because they held him from his girl. 

Mr. Horliss-Cole had finally succeeded in getting in touch with his foreman and giving directions that there seemed some likelihood of being obeyed. He came over to the car now and climbed in, looking white and old, like a child who has broken its doll. This would look badly in the papers. He had always been so proud of the record of his plant. No rows or strikes. No scandals. All praise and pictures of his hospital. 

When he found that John Treeves was still working over the girl he climbed out again and went over to him. 

“She's alive!” said Treeves lifting a glorified face. “I thought we’d better just put her right in your car and take her to her home. Her people want her.” 

Horliss-Cole stiffened: 

“The hospital is for such cases!” he began in a dignified tone. 

“Yes, I know,” said the young minister half impatiently, “but the brother is here and he is quite set against her going to the hospital, says his mother wants her at home and can take care of her. I think it would be better on the whole. She spoke just now herself and -said 'Home.' Now if you will stand aside we'll carry her over to the car. I think we can make her quite comfortable without disturbing your sister--” 

Mr. Horliss-Cole stood aside in dismay and watched while the young minister in his clinging wet garments lifted the slender body in his strong arms and bore her swiftly to the car. 

Marjorie Horliss-Cole stood back aghast, holding her dress away from the dripping hair of the girl and murmuring quite loud: “Why, the very idea! In our car!” 

“Now, if you will drive quickly, please,” he said to the chauffeur in that tone of command that was usually obeyed. “They said it was the fifth house in the second row, just beyond the office buildings.” 

The chauffeur with an inscrutable look cast a furtive eye at Horliss-Cole and started the car. 

John Treeves inclined his head slightly back toward Miss Cole: 

“I hope this delay won't inconvenience you, Miss Cole,” he said gently. “It seemed to be a matter of life and death to get her quickly to her home. This was the only way.” 

“Of course!” said Miss Cole with a surprising amount of satisfaction in her tone. Then she took the robe from her lap and wrapped it around the minister's shoulders. 

He smiled back: 

“Thank you, but don't worry about me, I’ve been colder and wetter than this many a time in France and it never hurt me a mite.” 

“H'm!” was all Miss Cole said, but she glanced keenly at Patty. For Patty had turned and taken one of the limp white hands of the stranger girl, and was chafing it softly between her own warm pink palms and then she drew her warm glove on one little limp hand and worked with the other. John Treeves said nothing, but he gave one swift, grateful glance into the girl's eyes and then dropped his glance respectfully. Patty felt as if somehow all the ache and sorrow of their estrangement had somehow been healed in spirit with that glance.