The Desired Woman(Fiscle Part-3 Of 2) by Will N. Harben (e book reader pdf TXT) 📕

Little Money That Is Coming To Me."

"Well,  Look Me Up Down There," Mostyn Said. "I Shall Want To See You

Again,  Anyway."

They Parted. Mostyn Trudged Down Into The Deeper Shadows. He Heard

Leach Singing Along The Rocky Way As He Ascended Higher. How Odd! But

The Going Of The Man Left Him More Deeply Depressed Than Ever. He Felt

Like Running Back And Calling On Him To Wait A Moment. There Was

Something He Wanted To Tell Him. He Wanted To Tell Him About A Certain

Haunting Circumstance And Ask His Advice. He Wanted To Reveal The

Whole Story Of Henderson's Loss And His Gain--Of The Old Man's Fall

And His Rise On The Ruins Of That Wrecked Life. But What Was The Use?

He Knew What Leach Would Say. He Would Say: "Make Restitution,  And

Make It Quick,  For God's Eye Is On You--God's Wide Ear Is Bending Down

From That Sky Up There To Hear The Words You Speak."

Mostyn Stood Still In The Lonely Road. "Yes,  He'd Advise That," He

Muttered,  "But I Can't Do It. It Would Take Almost All I Have Left,

And I Must Live. Leach Can Talk,  But I Am Not In His Shoes. I Might Be

Better Off If I Were. I Know I Ought To Do It. I Ought To Have Done It

Years Ago. How Can I Refrain Now When I Have No One Depending On Me

And Henderson Has That Helpless Family Of His? I Robbed Them--Law Or

No Law To Back Me,  I Robbed Them. A Higher Law Than Man's Holds Me

Guilty. I Wonder What--" He Stumbled Along Through The Thickening

Shadows Beneath The Trees,  The Boughs Of Which Were Locked And

Interlaced Overhead. "I Wonder What Dolly Would Say. I Needn't

Wonder--I Know. Many Women Would Tell Me Not To Bother,  But She

Wouldn't. She Would Be Like Leach--So Would Saunders. Great God! I

Really _Am_ Vile. I Know What I Ought To Do,  But Can't. Then There

Is My Child. If I Have A Hope Left It Is That He Is Safe With--God.

Yes,  That's It--_With_ God. There Must Be A God--So Many Say So,  And

He Must Love My Little Boy,  And Both Of Them Would Want Me To Do My Duty.

"Oh,  Dick,  Dick! My Son,  My Son!" He Cried Aloud,  "Are You Close To Me

Now? Tell Me,  Tell Me What To Do. Take My Hand,  Little Boy. Lead Me. I

Need You. I Am Your Father,  And You Are Only A Child,  But You Can Take

Me Out Of This,  For You Are Stronger Than I Am Now."

The Echo Of His Voice Came Back From The Rocky Heights. A Cricket

Snarled In A Tree. A Nightingale's Song Came Up From The Valley. He

Heard Sheep-Bells,  The Mooing Of A Cow,  The Bleating Of A Calf,  A

Farmer Calling Up His Hogs. Groaning,  And Bowed Closer To The Earth,

He Continued His Way.

A Fortnight Later Mostyn Returned To Atlanta. He Spent The First Day

At His Sister's Home Trying To Pass The Time Reading In Her Library,

But The Whole Procedure Was A Hollow Makeshift. Had He Been A

Condemned Prisoner Awaiting Execution At Dawn,  He Could Not Have

Suffered More Mental Agony.

Unable To Sleep That Night,  He Rose Before Sun-Up On The Following

Morning And Walked Through The Quiet Streets For Two Hours. What A

Mad,  Futile Thing The Waking City Seemed! "What Are These People

Living For--What,  After All?" He Asked. "But They May Be Happy In A

Way," He Added. "The Fault Is In Me. I Am Seeing Them Through Self-

Stained Glasses. It Wasn't Like This In My Sight Once--The Town Was A

Sort Of Heaven When I First Entered It And Began To Attract Attention.

Yes,  I Am At Fault. I Have Disobeyed A Spiritual Law,  And Am Getting

My Dues. What Is The Use Of Holding Out Longer? I See Now That I Am

Beaten. I Have Got To Do This Thing,  And Be Done With It."

After Breakfast He Went Straight To The Bank. Wright,  Delbridge,  And

The Clerks And Stenographers Seemed Unreal Creatures,  With Flaccid,

Vacuous Faces,  As He Shook Hands With Them And Answered Their

Conventional Queries About His Vacation. "Vacation!" The Word Was Not

In His Vocabulary. "Business! "That,  Too,  Was A Corpse Of A Word

Floating On The Still Waters Of Past Usage. "Money,  Stocks,  Bonds,

Market-Reports!" They Seemed Like Forgotten Enemies Rising To Stop

Him. How Could Delbridge Smile In His Smug Way,  As He Chewed His Cigar

And Boasted Of A New Club Of Which He Was The President? How Could

Wright Put Up With His Moderate Salary And Stand All Day At That

Prison Window? What Could The Limp,  Pale-Faced Stenographers In Their

Simple Dresses Hope For? Did They Expect To Marry,  Bear Children,

Nurse Them At Their Thin Breasts--And Bury Them Like Close-Clipped

Flowers Of Heaven Just Opening To Fragrance?

Seated At His Desk,  He Asked A Clerk To Go To The Vault And Bring Him

His Certificates Of Bank Stock. Delbridge Was Passing,  And,  Seeing

Them In His Hands,  He Said,  With His Forced And Commercial Shrewdness:

"If You Have Any Idea Of Selling Out,  Mostyn,  I'm In A Shape Now To

Take That Stock Off Your Hands."

Mostyn's Stare Resolved Itself Into A Glare Of Indecision. "What Would

Be Your Price?" He Asked,  Under His Breath,  And Yet Audibly--"That Is,

In Case I--I Found Another Use For The Money?"

"The Same Price I Gave Saunders," Delbridge Answered. "You Couldn't

Expect To Make A Better Deal Than That Long-Headed Chap. If You Really

Want To Do This Thing You'd Better Act At Once. I Have Another Plan On

Hand."

"You Make It As An Offer?" Mostyn Asked.

"Yes."

"Then The Stock Is Yours," Mostyn Answered. "Figure It Up And Place

The Money To My Credit. I May Check It Out To-Day. I Am Thinking Of

Leaving Town."

Delbridge Suppressed A Glow Of Triumph In His Eyes As He Took The

Certificates Into His Hands. He Spread The Crisp Sheets Out On The

Desk. "Indorse Them While The Pen Is Handy," He Suggested.

Mostyn Dipped The Pen And Wrote Steadily On The Backs Of The

Certificates.

"That's O. K.," Delbridge Mumbled,  Dropping His Cigar Into A Cuspidor.

"Now I'll Credit Your Account With The Money. Check On It When You

Like."

When Delbridge's Back Was Turned Mostyn Drew A Blank Check From A

Pigeonhole And Began To Fill It In. The Amount Was For One Hundred

Thousand Dollars. He Made It Payable To Jefferson Henderson. He Was

About To Sign His Name When A Great Weakness Swept Over Him Like A

Flood From An Unexpected Source. How Could He Do A Thing As Silly As

That? A Gift Of One-Tenth Of The Amount Would Delight The Old Man And

Take Him Out Of Want--Perhaps Win His Gratitude For All Time. Mostyn

Started To Tear The Check Up,  But Paused. No,  No,  That Wouldn't Be In

Obedience To A Higher Idea Of Justice. If The Old Man Had Been Allowed

To Hold On To His Investment In That Early Enterprise His Earnings

Would Have Come To Fully As Much As The Written Amount. Suddenly

Mostyn Saw The Dead Face Of His Child As It Lay In The Coffin

Surrounded With Flowers,  And A Sob Struggled Up Within Him And Burst.

"For Your Sake,  Dick," He Whispered. "I Know You'd Want Me To Do It. I

Know It--I Know It."

Half An Hour Later He Was Out In The Open Air,  Walking With A Strange

New Activity. His Very Body Seemed Imponderable. He Crossed The

Railway Near The Kimball House And Went On To Decatur Street. Along

This Street He Walked For A Few Blocks And Then Turned Off. Before

Long He Was In The Most Dilapidated,  Sordid Part Of The City. He Knew

Where Henderson Lived. He Had Seen The Old Man Pottering About The

Narrow Front Yard Of The Grimy Little Cottage As He Drove Past It One

Morning With A Friend.

As He Drew Near The House To-Day Its Impoverished Appearance Was More

Noticeable Than Ever. It Was Out Of Repair. Shingles Had Fallen From

The Sagging Roof. It Had Not Been Painted For Years; The Slats And

Hinges Of The Outside Blinds Were Broken,  And They Hung Awry Across

The Cracked Window-Panes. There Was A Little Fence Around It From

Which Many Palings Were Missing,  As Was The Gate. On The Narrow Front

Porch A Ragged Hemp Hammock Hung By Knotted And Tied Ropes Between Two

Posts. There Was A Broken Baby-Carriage In The Yard,  A Child's

Playhouse At The Step,  A Little Toy Wagon,  A Headless Doll,  A Piece Of

Bread,  And Some Chicken-Bones.

Mostyn Went To The Open Door And Rang The Jangling Cast-Iron Bell. It

Brought A Young Woman From A Room On The Right Of The Bare Little

Hall. She Held A Baby In Her Arms As She Peered Questioningly At The

Visitor. Mostyn Knew Who She Was. She Was Henderson's Youngest

Daughter,  Who Had Married A Shiftless Carpenter And Been Deserted By

Him,  Leaving Two Children To Be Cared For By Their Grandfather. It Was

Evident By Her Blank Stare That She Did Not Recognize The Caller.

"I Want To See Your Father," Mostyn Said. "Is He At Home?"

"He's In The Back Yard," She Answered. "He Hasn't Been Feeling At All

Well To-Day,  And He Didn't Go To Town As Usual. Who May I Say It Is?"

"Tell Him It Is Mr. Mostyn," Was The Answer. "I Won't Keep Him But A

Moment."

"Mostyn--Dick Mostyn!" The Woman's Tired Eyes Flashed As She Jerked

Out The Name. "So You Have Come _Here_ To Devil Him,  Have You?" She

Shifted The Infant From Her Left To Her Right Hip And Sneered. "I

Don't Suppose He Cares To See You. I'll Tell You One Thing--He's My

Father And I Have A Right To Be Plain--You And Your Treatment Are

Driving Him Out Of His Senses. He Can't Think Of Anything Else Or Talk

Of Anything Else. Sometimes He Rages,  And Sometimes He Breaks Down And

Cries Like A Child. I Never Have Fully Understood What You Did To Him,

But I Know You Ruined Him. Come In. I'll Tell Him You Are Here. I Hope

To The Lord You Won't Hit Him Any Harder Than You Have Already. We Are

In Trouble Enough. Two Days Last Week