The Tryst (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

dead black and white of dinner coat and stiff collar. The bright, restless eyes fixed themselves in a kind of gloating satisfaction on the young man. It was a possessive, selfish look such as he had worn all his life with regard to anything he desired, and reached after, and acquired and hoarded, almost the strongest element in it being to keep it from others. Before he had seen this young man, even when he was still following his honorable career in the army, he had not been quite sure whether he would seize this prize or fling it aside as unworthy; but now the old eyes snapped with pleasure, and the jaw set firmly with determination. This young man was his; no one, not even the fellow himself, should say him nay. What a wonderful set of shoulders he had! What line of limb and curve of feature! Heavens! How handsome he was! He must have got that from that poor little country upstart of a mother. Sometimes country girls were that way, healthy and handsome, and a strain of such stock wasn’t a bad thing in blood that had been blue for centuries. Now it was over, and she out of the way he could afford to let bygones be bygones. For the boy certainly was stunning! What a sensation he would make in New York society!

      Already he was planning his life for him – travel and polish and clubs! The right women! Gad! What a hit he would make with the women! But he would take good care to fix things so that he couldn't make his father's mistake. The hoarded millions would come in there all right. He would tie them up in such a way that the boy could only marry a desirable girl. He must learn to keep the other kind of girl in the background where other respectable young men of wealth and reputation kept their amours. But he would learn. There was keen intelligence behind those eyes. And he knew just where to get the right tutors. He rubbed his hands together in glee. Already he could see the flaring headlines bearing the name of the young and talented nephew of Calvin Treeves, the multimillionaire! Ah! What a future! He could bear, now, to sit back in a wheeled chair and know that his hour was over, for now he could live again through the career of this young man. It almost seemed as if Calvin Treeves must be a corpse dressed up, save for the weird twitching of lips and brow. The keen little eyes focused eagerly and with satisfaction on the broad shoulders and well-set head of his nephew. He noticed with pride the easy grace of his walk, and his look of being at home anywhere, but his only remark was an impatient: “Well, ready? Let’s move!” and the little procession went forward to the elevator.

      Treeves marked the obsequiousness of the servants as the old man’s chair rolled through the hall and into the lift like a chariot of state. He saw a look pass into the faces of all who served from the least bellboy to the highest in the house, that look of deference to riches, and his soul rebelled within him as he noted the slight reflection of glory that fell even to his own share because of being in the company of this little old selfish dried-up soul of a man in a withered shell of a body. Again the old wrath boiled within him, and he was almost at the point of turning away from the situation and bolting in disgust. Yet after all there was something pathetic in the smirk of satisfaction that sat upon the waxen lips. This was all the man had, this human adulation. And not for himself, either; the deference was for his riches! What a life to have lived so long, and to have nothing but this at the end I Self incarcerated in that withered old body, shortly to be driven forth into an unknown country where riches of earth count not and deference for such reasons is unknown!

      Down in the bright world of the hotel dining-room such thoughts quickly fled. Treeves was searching everywhere for a face. He paid little heed to the gaiety about him, and acknowledged the introductions his uncle gave with indifference. He did not expect to meet these people again. They were out of his sphere. They were interesting merely as specimens from another world. His eyes idly appraised a florid mother, her well-groomed head set off by a black velvet band with jeweled slides above her broad expanse of pink enameled chest. Her pallid daughter, with limpid eyes and an anaemic droop, stood beside her. He wondered why she cared to show so much of a long skinny back, and then his eyes hurried through the group of faces just beyond and Adele Quatrain realized that she had not made a hit with the stunning young nephew of the millionaire.

      “He's got the Treeves manner all right!” said the uncle to himself as he watched the young man with satisfaction. "He won't fall for the first little fool that angles for him, that's certain. He takes the first entrance into his own as if he had been here always. It's not going to be difficult at all to train him. That distant air suits him well. No one would guess he was not to the manner born. His mother couldn't have been so bad after all, and I suppose I shall have to say so to him, for he seems to be quite set on her. After all, she's dead and can't make us any more trouble, so what's the difference. And blood will tell. His father was a Treeves all through, if he did marry a poor country parson's daughter. It isn't as if she hadn't had some education of course. This certainly is going to be a good move. I shall enjoy myself! But what is the young cuss looking at? He hasn't taken his eyes off the main entrance! I swear it's almost as if he was watching for someone! He can't have found any friends here surely! I must keep my eye on him. I won't have him making any undesirable acquaintances!”

      But although John Treeves watched the main entrance to the great dining-room most carefully, and searched with eager eyes the faces of those seated about the tables, he could not find Patty Merrill nor her double.

      The dining-room was long and built of glass, opening on three sides to the mountain scenery. The sun, like a great red ball of fire-opal, slid down in majestic display behind pines and juniper and fir, sending long purple and gold bars through the interstices and left a gorgeous sky behind to linger and glow and die slowly into the deep purples and blues of night The brilliant lights of the dining-hall began to be felt with the dessert and coffee.

      “Doggone his fool hide! He isn't impressed at all!” mused his uncle, gulping his black coffee and eying his nephew savagely. “Where in thunder did he get that cool manner? One would think he had been a millionaire all his life! If he wasn't my nephew I'd call him an upstart! And he is! Of course he is! An upstart! But I like him and I'm going to keep him! That manner will go all right, only he mustn't work it on me/ I won't have it! I'll teach him he can't go that way with me! He's got to knuckle down and do as I say or I won't have anything to do with him! I'll teach him!”

      Meantime, Patty Merrill, in a pleasant suite of rooms on the third floor of the hotels stood at a window watching the sunset and trying to calm her excited heart and think what had really happened.

      She had unpacked Miss Cole's bags, hung up her belongings, and spread out her toilet articles with unaccustomed but intelligent Angers, and a kind of childish pleasure. It was like playing dolls or taking a part in a bit of comedy, this posing as a lady's maid and companion. It really amused her. Miss Cole did not seem a hard woman to please, and so far their relations had been entirely amicable. Now and then during the journey she had lifted her eyes to find those of the older woman upon her in a frank questioning stare. A stare that would have seemed almost impertinent if it had not been kindly. She felt too much alone in this great experiment she had launched herself upon, to resent a pleasant look, so she had answered it by a flush and a smile which somehow seemed always to turn the look, and once or twice had brought an answering smile.

      Miss Cole was lying on the couch in the sitting-room of the apartment, a steamer rug over her feet, and her head upon a linen pillow that always accompanied her on her journeys. She had closed her eyes and said she would rest until dinner was brought up; and Patty, feeling herself dismissed for the time being, drifted over to the window and dropped down upon the broad window-seat Looking into the heart of the valley where the shadows among the pines were deepest and smokiest she began to feel sad and full of vague fears and uneasiness. Was that really John Treeves that she had seen downstairs, or was it only her imagination? How would he be here? And if it were really her old comrade, what ought she to do about it?

      Since leaving New York her situation had been so entirely novel and amusing that she had had very little leisure to think it over or become depressed. Now, however, the full force of her exile came upon her. She was a fugitive, and must remain unknown. It would not do to be recognized by this young man who knew her family, whose mother had been a dear intimate of her mother in their childhood days, and who would undoubtedly think it his duly to persuade her to return home if he knew she was here under an assumed name; would very likely consider it his duly to let her family know of her whereabouts. Not that he would be disloyal to her wishes if he knew all, she was sure, for he had been a wonderful friend,