THE LOVER'S TRYST.
It was five o'clock on a raw, gusty February afternoon. All that day and
all the night before it had been snowing hard. New York lay buried
beneath over two feet of its cold white mantle, and with the gathering
dusk a fierce hurricane set in, proclaiming the approach of the terrible
blizzard which had been predicted.
On this afternoon, which was destined to be so memorable, two young men
were breasting the sleet and hail, which tore down Broadway with
demoniac glee, as though amused that the cable cars were stalled fully a
mile along the line, and the people were obliged to get out and walk,
facing the full fury of the elements, if they hoped to arrive at their
destinations that night.
It could easily be ascertained by the gray, waning light that both young
men were tall, broad-shouldered and handsome of face, bearing a
striking resemblance to one another.
They were seldom in each other's company, but those who saw them thus
jumped naturally to the conclusion that they were twin brothers; but
this was a great mistake; they were only cousins. One was Clinton
Kendale, whom everybody was speaking of as "the rage of New York," the
handsomest actor who had ever trod the metropolitan boards, the idol of
the matinee girls, and the greatest attraction the delighted managers
had gotten hold of for years.
His companion was of not much consequence, only Lester Armstrong,
assistant cashier in the great dry goods house of Marsh & Co., on upper
Broadway.
He had entered their employ as a cashboy; had grown to manhood in their
service, and he had no further hope for the future, save to remain in
his present position by strict application, proving himself worthy of a
greater opportunity if the head cashier ever chose to retire.
He lived in the utmost simplicity, was frugal, dressed with unusual
plainness, and put by money.
He hadn't a relative on earth, save his handsome, debonair cousin, who
never sought him out save when he wanted to borrow money of him.
Clint Kendale's salary was fifty dollars per week, but that did not go
far toward paying his bills at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, keeping a fast
horse and giving wine suppers. In his early youth he had begun the pace
he was now going. He had received a fine collegiate education, and at
his majority stepped into the magnificent fortune his parents had left
him. It took him just one year to run through it, then, penniless, he
came from Boston to New York and sought out his poor cousin. Lester
Armstrong succeeded in getting a position for Kendale with the same firm
with which he was employed, but at the end of the first week Clinton
Kendale threw it up with disgust, declaring that what he had gone
through these six days was too much for him. He had rather die than
work.
He borrowed a hundred dollars from his Cousin Lester and suddenly
disappeared. When he was next heard from he blossomed out, astonishing
all New York as the handsomest society actor who had ever graced the
metropolitan boards, and caused a furore.
There was another great difference between the two cousins, and that was
a heart; just one of them possessed it, and that one was Lester
Armstrong.
On this particular afternoon Kendale had lain in wait for his cousin at
the entrance of Marsh & Co.'s to waylay him when he came from the
office. He must see him, he told himself, and Lester must let him have
another loan.
Lester Armstrong was glad from the bottom of his true, honest heart to
see him, but his brow clouded over with a troubled expression when he
learned that he wanted to borrow five hundred dollars. That amount
seemed small, indeed, to the lordly Kendale, but to Lester it meant
months of toil and rigid self-denial.
"Come into the café, and while we lunch I will explain to you why I must
have it, old fellow," said Kendale, always ready with some plausible
story on his glib tongue.
"Haven't time now," declared Armstrong. "I must catch the five-twenty
train from the Grand Central Depot; haven't a moment to lose. I will be
back on the nine o'clock train. If you will come over to my lodging
house then I'll talk with you. I cannot let you have the sum you want.
I'll tell you why then, and you will readily understand my position. Ah,
this is your corner. We part here. Wish me luck on the trip I am about
to take, for I never had more need for your good wishes."
"You are not going off to be married, I hope?" exclaimed Kendale in the
greatest of astonishment.
A light-hearted, happy, ringing laugh broke from Armstrong's mustached
lips, the color rushed into his face, and his brown eyes twinkled
merrily.
"There's the dearest little girl in all the world in the case," he
admitted, "but I haven't time to tell you about it now. I'll see you
later."
With this remark he plunged forward into the gathering gloom, leaving
Clinton Kendale standing motionless gazing after him in the greatest
surprise. But the cold was too intense for him to remain there but an
instant; then wheeling about, he hastily struck into a side street,
muttering between his teeth:
"He must let me have that five hundred dollars, or I am ruined. I must
have it from him by fair means or foul, ere the light of another day
dawns. I've borrowed a cool two thousand from him in four months. I
wonder how much more he has laid by? I must have that five hundred, no
matter what I have to resort to to get it, that's all there is about it.
I am desperate to-night, and a person in my terrible fix fears neither
God nor man."
Meanwhile Lester Armstrong pushed rapidly onward, scarcely heeding the
bitter cold and terrible, raging storm, for his heart was in a glow.
He reached the Grand Central Depot just as the gates were closing, but
managed to dash through them and swing himself aboard of the train just
as it was moving out of the station.
The car was crowded; standing room only seemed to be the prospect, but
the young man did not seem disturbed by it, but settled his broad frame
against the door and looked out at the sharp sleet that lashed against
the window panes with something like a smile on his lips.
He had scarcely twenty miles to ride thus, but that comforting
remembrance did not cause the pleasant smile to deepen about the mobile
mouth.
He was thinking of the lovely young girl who had written him a note to
say that she expected him at the trysting place, without fail, at seven
that evening, as she had something of the greatest importance to
communicate to him.
"Of course my dear little girl will not keep the appointment in such a
blizzard as this. She could not have foreseen how the weather would be
when she wrote the precious little note that is tucked away so carefully
in my breast pocket; but, like a true knight, I must obey my little
lady's commands, no matter what they may be, despite storm or
tempests--ay, even though I rode through seas of blood!"
Half a score of times the engine became firmly wedged in snowdrifts in
traversing as many miles. There were loud exclamations of discomfiture
on all sides, but the handsome young man never heard them. He was still
staring out of the window--staring without seeing--and the smile on his
face had given place to an expression of deep wistfulness.
"Sometimes I wonder how I have dared to aspire to her love--the
beautiful, petted daughter of a millionaire, and I only an assistant
cashier on a very humble salary--ay, a salary so small that my whole
year's earnings is less than the pin money she spends each month.
"If she were but poor like myself, how quickly I would make her mine.
How can I, how dare I, ask her to share my lot? Will her father be
amused, or terribly angry at my presumption?
"This sort of thing must stop. I cannot be meeting my darling
clandestinely any longer. My honor forbids, my manhood cries out against
it.
"But, oh, God! how the thought terrifies me that from the moment they
find out that we have met, and are lovers, they will try to part
us--tear my darling from me!"
They had met in a very ordinary manner, but to the infatuated young
lover it seemed the most ideal, most romantic of meetings. The pretty
little heiress had gone to the office of Marsh & Co. to settle her
monthly account. The old cashier was out to lunch. His assistant, Lester
Armstrong, stepped forward and attended to the matter for the pretty
young girl, surely the sweetest and daintiest that he had ever beheld.
That night he dreamed of the lovely, dimpled rosebud face, framed in a
mass of golden curls; a pair of bewildering violet eyes, and a gay,
musical voice like a chiming of silver bells, and lo! the mischief was
done. The next day the assistant cashier made the first mistake of his
life over his accounts. The old cashier, Mr. Conway, looked at him
grimly from over the tops of his gold-rimmed glasses.
"I hope you have not taken to playing cards nights, Mr. Armstrong," he
said. "They are dangerous; avoid them. Wine is still worse, and above
all, let me warn you against womankind. They are a snare and a delusion.
Avoid them, one and all, as you would a pestilence."
But the warning had come to the handsome young assistant cashier too
late.