The Tryst (Annotated) (Grace Livingston Hill Book) (13 page)

“And those teachers of yours that are so wise, have they given up God, too?”

“Oh, no,” he hastened to tell her. “No, they were sure of a Supreme Power” -- and he hastened on with the rigmarole that had worn its way into the wall of faith she had wrought so hard to build about her son. 

They had talked until sunset, quietly on the whole, yet underneath each knew that the soul of the other was writhing in torture. He did not want to hurt her, and she knew it, but yet neither could he deceive her, for so she had ingrained the truth in his soul. In his young arrogance he had not seen the depth of her anguish then. He knew it now. The sorrow of the years had taught him what she had suffered, she whose faith was supreme and whose love for him was unalterable. The agony of having dealt that blow to her had been growing in him all the way home, was almost unbearable now, as he neared the old home and the trysting place, he felt as if he could not go there where she had been and know that his last talks with her had all been of alienation. For though she had struggled against it, and sought with all her strength of will and winning love to hold him to the old ways, she had seen him drifting away more and more each time, and he had felt A sort of fatality in it. 

He marveled as he thought of her own faith. That in itself ought to have held him to something. What was that verse he used to read with her, “But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of, knowing of whom thou hast learned them; and that from a child thou hast known the Holy Scriptures which are able to make thee wise unto salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus.” 

Were they? Was that true? Had he made a mistake to leave faith for reason? Well, he would know. If there was such a thing as finding out he would do it now. He had promised her and he would do it. Nothing should be left undone that he could do to bring back the old faith, the old assurance that these things she had taught him were true. 

She had not attempted argument that day. It was as if she had seen the whole thing coming and had been praying about it, as one accepts a terrible illness laid upon a loved one. So quietly, so pitifully she had taken her stand, as if he were under some kind of a hallucination. She was so sure, and so uplifted by her faith. She had not advised him to drop his theological studies. She wanted him to go on a little further. She hoped, he could see, that the way would clear again, and his faith shine out the brighter because of the momentary dimming. She had asked him to promise to read his Bible and to pray more than he had ever done before, and she had reiterated the promise that whosoever would do His will should know. And he was willing enough until they came to the question of what was “doing His will.” Right there they had split. She said always first, “And this is His will that they might believe on His name,” and this phrase had become a meaningless chant on his ear. His interpretation had been to love his neighbor and do good to those in need. He felt that in service should that “doing” be found. He had given himself to social service, spending all his time not actually needed for his studies in a large city settlement, toiling earnestly in the slums to uplift fallen humanity. He learned many useful things, but he did not learn assurance of his faith in Christ. His mother said he was not “doing the will” and therefore could not claim the promise. He continued to recite to her his sacrifices, and she only looked at him with deep, sorrowful eyes, and that far-away smile that haunted him always after he had gone back to the University and his theology, and once when he had spoken of a life of sacrifice as the supreme offering that a man may render his Maker, she murmured sadly: “Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice. His orders are to believe.” 

But he had turned away impatient and found fault with her for being narrow and old-fashioned. He had told her the times were changed since his grandfather's day, that this was the age of progress. Science had made great strides, men must not be tied by the superstitions of the past -- and then he had turned and found her weeping quietly, as if she would not be comforted, and then he had been obliged to go to his train while she still wept uncomforted. Indeed, what comfort was there for him to give, since he must be honest? 

John Treeves had long ago settled down in his seat in a hunch with his hat drawn over his eyes. There were tears in his eyes now as he sat there with the rumbling of the train jolting his aching head, and pounding in rhythm, with his aching heart. For all at once it came to him that old Calvin Treeves had not been half as cruel to this gentle mother of his as he, her loving son, had been, for he indeed had broken her heart. 

It was only a week and a day after that sorrowful leave-taking that they sent him word that she had taken pneumonia and was very sick. He had hastened to her bedside and sat with her night and day, but had known from the start that she was steadily slipping from him. And hour after hour, as he sat staring blankly before him, longing with all his heart to do something to comfort her, knowing there was but one thing he could do, yet helpless to do it it seemed, because the air seemed leaden and dark about him and the sky was black above. Then most unexpectedly she had opened her eyes with the old sweet smile and looked into his very soul: 

“Son, you will promise me something --” her voice was the faintest whisper: 

He bowed his head and sobbed upon her hand, “Anything, anything, mother darling!” then waited breathlessly to hear her words: 

“You will not preach -- against -- him!”

“Never, Mother. Never!” he raised his head vehemently. 

She smiled and seemed relieved. For a time she held his hand and later she slept. Most miraculously from that hour she grew better. The last afternoon before he went back to his studies they sat together. She was able to talk a little now, but the main subject of their thoughts had not been broached between them. As the shadows grew dusky in the room and the flame of the open fire flickered softly on the hearth, she put out her hand to his. 

“Dear, I’ve been thinking. There is something else I’d like you to promise me.” 

The pressure of his hand told her she had her wish: 

“I have read somewhere about the Indians, that when an Indian boy comes to the age of manhood there is a certain rite which he must perform before he can cast aside the garments and the name of his childhood, and become a man. He goes apart into a lonely place in the wood or desert where he can commune with himself and the Great Spirit and there he meditates, and chooses his new name, the name of some animal whose skin he is henceforth to wear like an amulet, a name which shall be significant of the life he means to lead. When I read it I thought it would be good if all young men went apart to meditate with God before they took upon them the sacred responsibility of manhood. And I would like my son to do that. When you have finished your studies I have a fancy that you should go to the old rock on the mountain where you and I have gone together so often and stay there until you have found yourself and your new name, and know what you ought to do in life. I want you to get away from the world long enough with God and the Bible and search for Him, honestly, with your whole heart. He has promised that you shall find Him when you shall search for Him with ail your heart, and I feel sure that He will keep that promise to you and to me. And so I have written you a letter, see, it is sealed, and I will put it in the little secret drawer of my desk where you used to love to go and find your father’s picture and the little Bible I carried to church when I was small. No, son, don’t open it now. It is for that day, when you shall go alone into the open and stay till you find God. Take my Bible with you, and my letter, and stay until you have found Him and He has told you if you are to preach for Him, and what you are to say. If you find Him not you will not have searched with all your heart, and YOU MUST NOT PREACH. But-YOU WILL FIND HIM. He never fails. 

“See, I have thought it all out. You will be twenty-four, almost when you are through your studies. Take a little rest during the summer, just to get away from all you have been thinking and studying, get out and be glad in the out of doors, and then on your twenty-fourth birthday, or later if anything hinders your graduation, take the letter, and the Bible and go apart to fast and find your soul and your God. Will you do this for me? Will you keep this tryst with God?”

And he had bowed his head and promised. 

The war had come and whirled him away into a purgatory of time just as he was through his studies, and now, two years later, he was back and his twenty-sixth birthday was approaching, was but three days off, and he was on his way to keep tryst. But the mother who had sent him had slipped away to God while he was in France, and the news of her going had come to him like a shock after the war was over, when he was almost on his way back to her, and he had only her letter, the unread letter, and her precious marked Bible to take with him into the wilderness to the trysting place. 

The little white bungalow at the extreme end of the village street, in Maple Brook, had not been opened since the neighbors straightened everything with mathematical precision on the afternoon after the funeral, and when John Treeves, weary and heart sick, put the key in the latch and threw the door open, a dusty, unfamiliar atmosphere flung out to greet him. The little home where his mother and he had spent so many happy hours seemed an alien place in that first breath. But when he had stepped in and closed the door, and lighted a lamp that still had some oil left in it, the old sweet home look rushed around him and stung the tears into his eyes. There on the mantel was the clock he had saved up his pennies to buy for her on Christmas, staring at him with silent face, a kind of epitome of all the loneliness since the dear mother who was the heart of the home had gone away. The stone about the rugged little fireplace had been scrubbed clean of all suggestive cosy smoke, and the fireplace was empty, swept and garnished with only a laurel leaf and a spray of dead asparagus fern as a reminder of funeral flowers. He strode over and brushed them down the ash damper out of sight with a sigh that was almost a groan, and dropped into her little cushioned chair beside the earth, his head upon his hands: 

“Oh, Mother! Mother! Mother!” he moaned, and the agony reached to the curtained window sash where a man stood outside with his ear strained, and his eyes vainly trying to see what was going on inside. Something in the voice brought a choking feeling into old Hespur’s throat, and made him rub his eyes hastily. 

By and by John Treeves summoned courage to go the rounds of the little house, and look into every dear comer. It seemed almost as if he must find her somewhere if he only searched long enough. It was worst when he came to his mother's bedroom, with the closet door just a bit ajar and a corner of her pretty blue and white bathrobe glimpsing out so naturally, as if she had just cast it aside. 

He did not feel like eating, though he had bought some things in the city before coming out and had intended to cook himself some supper. Instead he snatched the little faded bathrobe from its hook, and wrapping it in his arms flung himself down upon her bed, with his face in her dusty pillow, and there he fell asleep. 

Old Hespur, outside in the starlight, waited long and anxiously, but at last concluded the young man was asleep, and crept away to find a scanty lodging for himself. It was hard on a man who was getting old and had been used to ease and luxury to knock around like this and not know from hour to hour what was to be his portion, but Hespur would go through fire for his crabbed old master. Some might have thought it was for hope of gain, but it was in reality for love of his pitiful old charge. Besides, Hespur found a warm spot in his heart for this spirited youth who was so like, and yet who had so little toleration for his old uncle. It was only a haymow, nesting warm in the hay that old Hespur found for a lodging that night, for the village were all asleep. But he stole forth at daybreak and found food and water and a place to make a hasty toilet, then hastened back to watch the little white cottage at the end of the street. 

It was high noon when John Treeves, wearied with his journey and the sorrow of his home-coming, awoke to life again and remembered that it was his birthday, and what he had to do that day. A strange reluctance was upon him as he thought of it, an apathy about life in general, and this day in particular. Somehow he shrank as he was face to face with his promise. He turned his face to the pillow and closed his eyes, wishing with an inexpressible longing that he might just lie here and breathe away his life in sleep, and be put beside the mother who loved him. What was the use in going out into the wilderness in search of a God who had not chosen to come to him? 

But when he arose and dashed cold water in his face, and began to go about and think of the day, a kind of excitement began to fill him. A fine enthusiasm for the duty, or should he call it a privilege that was before him? It was the only thing left that he might do for his mother and it was a sacred promise. Then, too, there lay beneath it all a hope that after all he might find his mother’s God. It was vague and faint, for he had been through too much to have many illusions left, but still it was there. And if he should find him --Ah! He would follow all his life. It was the utmost he could do to atone for the sorrow his loss of faith had caused her. What a fool he had been not to have known her agony in the full measure of its meaning. Somehow he might have ended it sooner, perhaps by the sooner seeking. By sticking to the old ways and attending church and doing Christian work, the work she loved. How arrogant he had been in his pride that he had cared more to speak out the truth of his doubts than to try to find a way to keep his faith. It puzzled him now to think that he had not tried to stop the flow of doubts, to have kept at least a semblance of the old ways for her sake. What a fool he had been not to know he was walking over her heart every moment! Would that pain in her eyes haunt him the rest of his life? 

And it was of her he was thinking as he took his way, with only his mother's Bible and the letter, and went forth into the wilderness on his search.