The Tryst (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

He half turned away in disgust, and then wheeled back:

      “Stop!” he commanded in the voice that during the war had always been obeyed, although he was not a commissioned officer. “Stop! You are an old coward! You have no control over yourself and no reason in your actions. You have just come out of a three days’ illness which you know might have been your last, brought on wholly by your own will, and kept up by your will. You are trying to bully me now into obeying your will just because you are too much of a coward to face the slightest opposition to your will. You have bullied people all your life, and I don't wonder that you are not very happy now. But didn't it ever occur to you that you never really get your way that way? You never can bully people into giving you real obedience. They may do a few things you make them do, but they hate you. You never have their love, or their real obedience, and that's what you want, isn't it? You can't ever get anything going at it that way. You've bullied a great many people in your time, but you're coming to the end, and there's God. You can't bully Him, you know!”

      His voice had grown quiet and steady now and he was looking straight and unflinchingly into the wild old eyes, holding them, controlling them, forcing them to keep quiet and listen.

      The old servitor with trembling hands was holding to the footboard, of the bed, and watching his master's face with sharp anxiety. This young man was standing out against the old tyrant, and the old tyrant was keeping still and listening, but what would happen next? This would kill the master, the poor – old – bad – old – master!

      From the first word Calvin Treeves had fixed his bright, bad, little eyes on his nephew's face as if fascinated. It was a new thing for anyone to stand out against him. A few had opposed him, but none had stayed to reproach him – none had dared! And this young whiffed! This handsome, smart, courageous son of his own brother! This keen tongue that sounded not unlike his own in the cutting way it had of choosing words and hurling facts, whether true or false, straight into the soul of a man! Ah! This was something new. He gasped – and listened!

      “And now,” finished John Treeves, his tone growing steadier and quieter, like! the passes of a mesmerist when he has gotten the subject under control:

      “Now you're going to rest a few minutes before you have your glass of milk, and then we are going to wheel you down the pine trail under the trees awhile in the sunshine and let you see how wonderful it is outdoors to-day. We'll have a pleasant walk and then we'll have lunch together, either up here or down in the dining-room, whichever you feel able for, and after that I'm going away. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I have got to go. It is something important in my life ——”

      “'Is it a girl?" The little old ferret eyes fairly stuck into him like pins in their eagerness.

      “No. It is not a girl!” said John Treeves emphatically.

      “Will you come back again?" The voice was almost a whimper now. The old man was cowed. Hespur relaxed his hold upon the bedpost and drew a deep breath, murmuring half aloud:

      “He's comin’ through. My great fathers! He's comin’ through! The young mister has got him an' he's comin' through!”

      “Possibly,” said the cool, casual, young voice. “It may depend a good deal on you. If you treat me to any more of these baby acts of yours, I’ll never come within a thousand miles of you again, if I can help it. If you want to be an uncle of mine you’ve got to act like a man!”

      “Now just listen to that!” murmured Hespur as he turned away weakly and looked out of the window. “Oh, my old master! He's got you.”

      And it was so that Patty saw them, watching the trail from her window, where she was reading aloud to Miss Cole, who had acquired a severe cold and had been obliged to spend the last three days in her room much to her disgust. The old man muffled in robes and furs, peering meekly out on the splendor of the mountain, Hespur pushing the wheeled chair, and the tall, straight, young giant stalking by the side. Her heart gave a little spring of mingled gladness and worry. She had thought him gone away. There had been no sign of his presence for three whole days.

      And then, that afternoon, he packed his suitcase and went away to the tryst.

      “Hespur!” called the old man weakly as the young man's footsteps died away down the hall after his farewell. “Hespur!”

      “Here! Sir!”

      "Hespur, you've got to follow him, you have! I can't stand it not to know what he's doing."

      "Yes, sir" bowed Hespur uncertainly, not unwilling. “But what, sir, will you do?"

      The old man groaned:

      “I suppose you'll have to leave me with that dog of a foreigner that came up from the kitchen the day you had to go up to Washington for me."

      “All right, sir. I’ll go, sir! When shall I go?”

      “Now! Catch that same train, do you hear? But don't let him know you're on it. Don't let him see you once. Understand? Follow him every step of the way till you get to the bottom of what sent him off in such a hurry. But don't let him lay eyes on you nor suspect ! Do you see?”

      “I see, sir. I'll try to make it.”

      “Don't try! Make it! You've got to make that train!"

      "All right, sir!" and Hespur vanished.

      Five minutes later a heavy-footed, thick-faced, stolid man-servant presented himself for orders, and Hespur, with no baggage and struggling into his overcoat as he ran, jumped into a cab and was whirled down the mountain side to the station, swinging himself on to the last car of the train as it began to move.