The Tryst (Annotated) (Grace Livingston Hill Book) (37 page)

“Why, yes, I see that some men could be lazy all their lives and still have enough to live on while the rest of us would have to work all the harder to make up for them, and not get any more for it. You wouldn't get very far on that plan.” 

“Well, there's something wrong somewhere,” said the man looking puzzled. His philosophy couldn't carry him far into the subject because all he said was repeated from what he had heard in labor agitation meetings and books on socialism, and even those were a little mixed. But he went on : “Now take it here. This man's left his millions; I don't know how many of them there is, more'n anybody else in New York has, I guess; anyhow, it's a lot, and he's left 'em all to his nephew, some little runt of a sissy, or some big fat slob that will lie back and roll around in luxury while WE WORK for him! I say that's unfair! Now, if it could be left to a man like you, why it would be different! You would know what to do with it, but these here lazy millionaires that hez to hev their beefsteak cut up fer 'em every morning before they can eat it. It gives me a pain in the neck. I say it ain't fair. I says to Billy, I sez: Oh, boy! Wish I was that Dunham Treeves feller this morning; wouldn't I make the cash fly!” 

“Dunham Treeves!” said Treeves looking up with a sudden start. 

“Yes, that's the young feller's name what's got all that money, millions and millions. Same name as yours; ain't that funny? That's why I said I guessed you wisht your name was anything but John. Call me anything. Call me Dunham, so it's Treeves. Ha! Ha!” 

John Treeves had been through too many experiences not to have learned a good control of his face. It served him well now, for after the first quick flicker of his eyelashes his face became unreadable, and he turned away to polish up a spot on his machine, saying only: 

“Well, that is curious, isn't it?” But his hand shook as he started his machine on its daily clatter, and he pushed the pieces of metal through mechanically with his thoughts far away. 

After a few minutes' rapid work he suddenly stopped his machine and went in search of the foreman, explaining that he had been up all night and would like to get off for a little while. 

“He's all in,” explained his neighbor workman. “I seen he looked white when he come in this morning. He didn't make as much fuss as I thought he would about that young millionaire feller havin' the same name as him. I thought it was real curious.” 

John Treeves hurried out to find a morning paper and saw the flaring headlines. “CALYIN TREEVES, The MULTIMILLION'AIRE, dies of heart failure in the South. His nephew, the famous young preacher of this city, inherits the entire fortune which it is supposed will prove to be much larger than is known.” There followed a sketch of Calvin Treeves's life and attainments, the number of clubs he belonged to and the town and country houses owned by him. The account stated that the death occurred quietly with Mr. Treeves's faithful old man-servant, who had attended upon him for thirty-five years, as his only companion. 

John Treeves stood as if stunned. A great reproach came to him that he had not tried to do more for his uncle while he was alive, and regret that he had never made the slightest attempt to bring him to the knowledge of his Christ. All his life he had harbored a feeling almost amounting to hatred toward the man who might have been so much to his mother and had not been. Until his vision upon the mountain, he had openly acknowledged this attitude, and rather been proud of it than otherwise, but since his new faith in Christ and the love that had come into Ms heart for all the world, he discovered that this feeling had changed and melted into one of deep pity. He had been planning to run down again soon and see the old man and try to bring a little cheer into his life. He had been deeply touched by his uncle's seeming to care about him. It somehow seemed to wipe out the past; and now he was surprised to find that he had a feeling of being alone in the world, all close of kin gone! 

Of the matter of the fortune he thought little. It was a mistake of course. His uncle had distinctly said he would not leave him the inheritance if he did not give up his plans and come to live with him, and he had positively declined. There could be nothing in it of course. In fact, he had so little care about it that he promptly forgot it until later, when he heard the men at The Plant talking about it and wishing it had been left to them. 

As soon as John Treeves had finished reading the account in the paper he went to the telephone office and called up Hespur on long distance. He had no very definite idea or plan save to express his sympathy and to ask if there was anything he could do. 

Old Hespur greeted him with relief: “Is that you, Mr. Treeves? Oh, well, then! We've been telegraphing hither and yon to find you. Yes, sir, we've bringing the body home to New York, sir, the old residence on the Avenue, sir. It was his wish, sir, that you should have the service; just a short one, sir. Mostly Bible and praying, sir, if you don't mind the mention. He called me three weeks ago, one day, and he says, 'Hespur, if I should ever die,' just casual like, sir. He says, 'Hespur, I'd like you to see that there isn't any lauding and praising and talking about me. Just let me slip out quiet like,' he says, 'with a bit of a prayer and a verse,' he says, 'and I'd like my nephew to say them. I've been an old sinner, and he knows it,' he says, begging his pardon, sir, 'but I'd like him to say all there is to say, and 111 not have a mummery,' just like that he says it! Begging your pardon, sir, for suggesting, but I thought you'd like to know.” 

“Yes, Hespur, I'm glad to know,” said John Treeves in a husky voice deeply touched by the old servant's words. “I wish I had known he was going. I would have liked to see him again. I think I was too hard on him.” 

“Not a bit of it, sir! He said so himself, sir! And he wouldn't have it that I should tell you. He wanted you to stick by in New York. He's been reading of your sermons, sir, and he's well pleased. But I'll tell you all that when I see you.” 

“Do you wish me to come down at once, Hespur?” 

“No, Mr. Treeves, begging your pardon, now that we've found you I think we will start immediately. We've wired and made all arrangements. The doctor was his friend and knew all about his wishes. He'll come with me, sir. If you could just see to things at that end. You’ll find all our telegrams at the Treeves office in the city. And you might meet us as near as Philadelphia if that won't be too much trouble, sir. There's scarcely time to come down and go back. Thank you kindly, Mr. Treeves, and 111 turn everything over to you when we get there, and I hope as how you'll approve.”

John Treeves called up the Treeves lawyer in the city, discovered that the arrangements for the funeral were completed, learned the hour of the service, and a few other details that were necessary, and then went back to his work. The other men looked up surprised when he returned to his machine. Somehow they had not expected him, and his white, grave face made them suddenly sorry for him: 

“You hadn't oughta set up two nights running. Tree!” said Billy passing that way to get a drink of water. “'Taint right to get no sleep at all. Man can't stand that and work. You'd oughta lay off to-day.” 

Treeves smiled wanely: 

“I had some sleep last evening, Billy; I'll be all right.” 

He was touched at the sympathy the men displayed because they thought he was not well. It made his heart glad to think that he had won them that far. Then he sighed to think how much there was to do yet for them ere he could hope to have the hold on them by which he might lead them to his Saviour. 

John Treeves finished out his day's work, for he did not wish the men to suspect that he was in any way connected with the dead millionaire, or all he had accomplished during the weeks of his life among them might be swept away. They would be as aloof as if he lived in a separate star and look on him at once with suspicion if they thought he belonged to the moneyed class, even by so slight a connection as a disowned nephew. 

But he explained to his foreman that he must be away at a funeral of a near relative, and quietly slipped away at dusk, after having assured himself that Johnny Fusco was out of danger and on the mend. 

All the way up from Philadelphia where John Treeves boarded the private car which was carrying the old man's body in state, Treeves sat with the old servant listening to the account of the last few weeks of his uncle's life. His heart grew humble and shamed as he learned how the Lord had used his own sermons to bring conviction and salvation to the old sinner's soul. Often the tears flowed unchecked as Hespur told the story in simple, plain words, leaving nothing out. Hespur was eloquent because he loved the old man and he wanted the nephew to understand. 

He had told parts of the story once before to Miss Sylvia Cole, at her own request, because he believed his master would want her to know, and because he believed she had a right to know. She had listened in quiet grief to the end and then had thanked him. And he had turned with gentle dignity prepared to put the interview so far from his mind that it would be sealed henceforth even from his own thoughts; but she spoke again: 

“Hespur, what are you going to do now? I mean --afterward.” 

He turned and answered gravely: 

“I shall look after the young master now. Miss Cole.” 

“Of course!” she said thoughtfully. “I had forgotten. I was going to say if you had nowhere else that I -- but it is better so.”

Hespur looked at her with a wonderful deference in his true eyes: 

“My lady!” he said with a low bow of acknowledgment “My lady, I thank you! If it ever came to that I should be glad, too. But at present there is the young master, and I promised Mister Treeves, my lady, that I would stay by him and look after him.” 

“Yes, that is right, Hespur. You are a good man, Hespur. I feel as if you were --my FRIEND!” And Miss Sylvia Cole got up from her chair, came across to where he stood, and took that old servant's hand in a warm grasp of perfect equality. 

After the funeral John Treeves and old Hespur were asked to return to the big, dark library and listen to the reading of the will. As the nearest relative, the only one present, John Treeves, went of course, but he went with little interest, expecting to listen to a long list of hospitals, libraries and colleges to whom bequests were to be made. He had already decided that if his uncle had relented so far as to leave him a small sum he would devote it to helping make the lives of his fellow-workmen brighter and better. He had not yet anything but vague ideas, but if it should prove to be a few hundreds, or even a thousand or two, there were a number of things that were terribly needed. If he only could buy outright a few houses and fix them up! But of course that was impossible. It was Horliss-Cole's plant, and he was only a workman. He must do his work quietly. There would be little lame Jose who needed an operation, and the two children of Fortunato who needed glasses, and the old woman, Congetta, who ought to have special treatment for the asthma. Oh, well, he could use a lot of money of course if he had it. How grand, for instance, it would be if he could build a big board structure in which he could hold meetings! He had broached the subject of church services in the amusement hall to Horliss-Cole, but he had not thought well of it. He said the people had their own churches and he should not care to interfere with their religion. He calmly ignored the fact that The Plant was several miles from any kind of a church, and the people neither owned cars nor had the carfare to go to New York for service. Treeves's heart ached for an opportunity to tell these people the Gospel story. As it was, he could only live it quietly day by day and trust to chance opportunities to speak to souls and tell stories to the children. 

When the will was read, leaving practically all of the vast fortune whose sum total was so great that it was fairly incomprehensible in every-day terms, to “my beloved nephew, J. Dunham Treeves, without hindrance or conditions,” John Treeves sat dumb, staring, unable to realize what had taken place. With the exception of a few paltry legacies to distant relatives and old servants, the estate went intact. The money he had declined, run away from, and scorned, had come down upon him in spite of himself!

At first he was almost inclined to think there must be something wrong, and this was a will made before his uncle had talked with him. But when he found that it was made only three weeks before, and after he had read the letter which Calvin Treeves had written to be given him after the reading of the will, he began to understand. 

The letter was short, written by the old man himself, and quite characteristic. It ran: 

“Dear Nephew: Well, you've beaten me out! You've had your way and I like you all the better for it! You wouldn't be bought, and you showed me my money wasn't worth anything, so here it is! Do what you want with it, only don't ever let it get between you and God or love. I'm an old reprobate. I've told God about it, and if all you preach is true I guess He's forgiven me and going to give me another deal somehow. If I get in over there I'm going to hunt up that mother of yours right away and apologize on my knees to her. She's a winner, and I'm an old fool and a sinner. If the blood of Jesus Christ you talk about can save me, it can save anyone in the world. You tell 'em so from me if you find a chance, and maybe that'll help to make up for some of the harm I've done. You didn't want the money so maybe that'll keep away the curse that goes with it. And I want you to know I'm proud of you boy; and your preaching has brought me to trust in the blood of Jesus Christ to save my fool soul! 

Your mistaken old uncle who loves you, Calvin Treeves.” 

John Treeves looked up from the letter and met the lawyer's obsequious glance, looked around the luxuriously furnished library of the stately old mansion where his own father had been born, and realized that it was all his, and then bowed his head in his hands. 

He would not stay there that night. He said he must think. He promised to meet old Hespur there the first of the following week. So he went out into the crisp evening air of the city, and walked away from his ancient mansion, and took the trolley to the works. That night he slept on the little hard cot in Congetta's wee white-washed room, took his breakfast on the oilcloth-covered table with the clean little children, Filicie and Rosina and Salvator and Dominico and Jose; went down the little aisle of a sidewalk to the shop, where he took his place as usual at his machine, spoke to Billy and John and Nick; laughed with the men as if nothing had happened.