“Oh!" chortled the old man,” She had an eye to my sending for you some day, did she? Rather long-headed, wasn't she?”
The old servitor started anxiously and looked toward the young man whose set jaw grew more stem and manly with every word, and who was looking straight into the wicked old eyes with an unflinching gaze:
"Sir," said the clear young voice, “it was when I was a child, and I had told her I hated you and would never forgive you for the way you had treated her, and she said that no soul ought to go into eternity unforgiven and I must not refuse you that if you ever asked.”
The old man blanched as if he had been struck by the words, and then a wave of purple rage rolled up over his withered face:
“Well, wait till I ask then!” he roared out. “I want no old woman's talk about eternity! I sent for you to-day because I wanted you, not because I wanted forgiveness. Sit down, young man, and let's get to business! I tell you I won't be annoyed this way. You've got to do as I want you to do. I'm an old man, and I can't stand this excitement!"
He fumbled around for his handkerchief and mopped his congested forehead, panting for breath, as the wave of rage passed away and left him weak and feeble.
“Sir, you've got to apologize for the way you spoke of my mother or I’ll never sit down. I know of no business I want to talk over with you, and if your business is not worth an apology I would better be going."
The old man stopped mopping his face and stared at his nephew.
“Apologize!" he muttered. “Ha! Hal Apologize! Why, son, I never apologized to anyone in my life. You don't expect me to begin now——!"
“Very well! I will bid you good afternoon ——”
“Stop!" spluttered Calvin Treeves. “Stop! I apologize! Now, sit down!" He fairly shouted it.
The young man sat down sternly erect on the edge of the chair, but the effect was the same as when standing. Calvin Treeves realized this, and fairly whimpered his disappointment:
“Take this other chair and be comfortable!" There was almost a pleading note in the dictatorial old voice.
“What is your business, Mr. Treeves?"
“Call me Uncle ——” crooned the old man.
“What is your business, Uncle Calvin?"
The old gleam of triumph came back:
“That's better, nephew, that's better. Now we can talk. Well, my business is this. You see I'm all alone in the world. I'm getting to be an old man, and I'm sick. I want some one to belong to me, in whom I can live my life over again. In short, I want to get acquainted with you and feel that there is some one in the world to whom I can turn.”
The old man stopped and eyed the younger keenly, anxiously.
The young man looked up with the stern look still about his mouth and eyes:
“I'm afraid that is impossible!”
“Why?" cringed the old man as if he had been struck.
“Because of the way in which you treated my mother. You let her struggle on all those years when I was a child, and never offered to even help her to find something to do to earn her living and mine till I was old enough to help. You even refused to help pay the funeral expenses of your own brother, and when mother asked you to lend her enough to pay the interest on the mortgage of our house for one year until she could earn enough to pay you back, you told her she was an interloper and had cheated my father out of a fair start in life. Afterward, when my mother lay sick in the hospital for weeks and I was cared for by strangers, you never lifted your finger. Do you think that I could care to live on intimate terms with one who did all that?”
The old man seemed to wither and shrink before the scathing tone of the young man. His thin hands like yellow parchment clung claw-like to each other, and he cringed before the young eyes that condemned him.
“You are very harsh in your judgment of me!" he put in plaintively. "Your father was engaged to a woman both beautiful and rich who would have made his life a different thing ———!”
“Knowing my mother, I can only rejoice for my father's sake that he married my mother instead of this woman!”
Young voices are so cold and clear in condemnation. The old man shivered.
“I never saw your mother!” he whimpered placatingly.
“That was your fault,” scathed the son.
“I’ll say this much for her, she did well in bringing you up.”
The young man lifted scornful eyes.
“You know nothing about me; how can you say that?”
The cunning gleamed in the old eyes again:
"I know all about you. I’ve followed your career ever since you entered the army. I know you and am proud of you, and I want you for my own.”
There was a curious pathetic hunger in the old voice that the younger man could not ignore. Because he was the son of such a mother, he knew he must not pass it by.
“Why did you do that?” he asked at last after a long pause of troubled thought.
“Because when I happened to see your name in the paper I was proud that there was one of my name to go over. I had no son myself, and was too old to have any part myself, but – you were there – and I followed the war through you. I had a man over there finding out everything you did. I knew every turn you took. I know all the honors you won. I’m proud of you and the way you have honored the name of Treeves.”
There was still that plaintive appeal for love in the old voice, the wistful look mingling with the cunning in the spoiled old eyes. John Treeves looked up and pondered and then spoke:
“I could not give you my” – he carefully considered the words – “affection, nor my” – he considered again – “confidence, sir, so long as you feel as you do about my mother. I think, sir, there would be always a wall between us.”
A look of cunning twinkled into the little, old eyes:
"Perhaps by knowing you I should learn to know her better and think better of her. I have thought better of her since following your career. Anyhow” – in a fretful tone – “that was a long time ago. Let us put it all by and begin again. If I made a mistake then I can’t right it now, can I? Suppose you begin and tell me all about yourself. I shall doubtless get glimpses of your mother through that. Go ahead! I want to know all!”
The young man's lips looked stubborn at first. Even the old servant could see that the order was distasteful, that to talk of himself was never a favorite employment, and to talk about his sacred life with his beloved mother seemed a sacrilege in this presence. The fine brows drew down lower, and the whole face looked ominous. The little old man sat huddled in his pillows and watched fearfully. He wanted to conquer, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life before. This strong vital young man with his beauty and his independence, his audacity and his impudence had in these few minutes become of immense value to his lonely frightened
