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

Except What A Neighbor Sent In,  And That Nearly Killed My Father,  For

He Is Proud. One Of My Sisters Is Sick And Lost Her Job At The

Factory. If I Thought You Was Any Sort Of A Man I'd Ask You To Have

Pity."

With Her Disengaged Hand The Woman Shoved A Door Open And Hastily

Retreated. He Went Into A Little Sitting-Room And Sat Down. There Were

Only A Few Pieces Of Furniture In The Room. A Worn Straw Mat Lay On

The Floor; Three Or Four Chairs,  All But Bottomless,  Stood Here And

There; A Small Square Table Holding A Lamp And A Family Photograph-

Album Bound In Red Plush Was In The Center Of The Room. Oil-Portraits

Of Henderson And His Dead Wife,  In Massive Frames,  Hung On The Walls.

Henderson's Wore The Prosperous Look Of The Time When His Means And

Good Will Had Been At Mostyn's Service.

Holding His Hat Between His Knees,  The Caller Leaned Forward Tensely,

Wondering Over The Present Spectacle Of Himself. He Heard Loud Words

In The Rear. "I Know What He Wants." Old Henderson's Voice Rose And

Cracked. "It Isn't The First Time He Has Tried To Browbeat Me Into

Holding My Tongue. He's Heard What I've Said,  And Wants To Threaten Me

With Prosecution. But That Won't Stop Me. I'll Tell Him What I Think

To His Teeth--The Low-Lived,  Thieving Dog! He _Did_ Steal My Money--He

_Did,_ He _Did!_"

Heavy Footfalls Rang On The Bare Floor Of The Hall; An Outer Door Was

Slammed. The Voice Of Henderson's Daughter,  Now Full Of Fright,  Was

Heard Admonishing Her Father To Be Calm. "You'll Drop Like The Doctor

Said You Would If You Don't Be Careful!" She Advised. "The Man Isn't

Worth It."

With Dragging Steps Old Henderson Advanced Till He Stood In The

Doorway. His Long White Hair Was Unkempt; He Wore No Collar Or Coat.

His Trousers Were Baggy,  Patched At The Knees,  And Frayed At The

Bottom Of The Legs,  Where They Scarcely Reached The Gaping Tops Of His

Stringless Shoes. Mostyn Had Risen And Now Stood Staring At His Former

Patron,  Unable To Formulate What He Had Come To Say.

"My Daughter Says You Want To See Me," Henderson Blurted Out. "Well,

You Are Welcome To The Sight. You've Dodged _Me_ Often Enough Lately.

Do You Know What I Tried To See You About The Other Day When I Was

There? It Wasn't To Get Money,  For I've Given That Up Long,  Long Ago.

I Wanted To Tell You That I Spend My Days Now Thanking Both God And

The Devil For The Plight You Are In At Last. I Believe Prayers Are

Answered--You Bet I Do--You Bet,  You Bet! I've Prayed To Have You Hit

Below The Belt,  And It Has Come In Good Measure. I See From The Way

You Look That You Feel It. Ah,  Ha! You Know Now,  Don't You,  How It

Feels To Squirm Under Public Scorn And Lose Something You Hold Dear?

They Tell Me Old Mitchell Sees Through You And Is Leaving All He's Got

To Virginia Kin. The Dying Of Your Child Knocked All That Into A

Cocked Hat--Your Own Child,  Think Of That! I've Laughed Till I Was

Sick Over It. First One Report Come,  Then Another,  Till Your Three

Staggering,  Knock-Out Blows Was Made Public. I Don't Know How True It

Is"--Henderson Wrung His Talon-Like Hands Together Tightly--"But

Business Men Say There Isn't Much Left Of Your Private Funds."

"Hardly Anything Now,  Mr. Henderson," Mostyn Answered. "Now That I

Have Decided To--"

"Ah! _That_ Is True,  Then!" Henderson Ran On,  With A Sly Chuckle. "It

Is Reported That Delbridge,  The Feller You Started Out To Race Against

So Big,  Has Swiped The Bank Presidency Right From Under Your Nose,

Nabbed The Cream Of The Business,  And Put It On A Respectable

Footing."

"That Is All True," Mostyn Admitted. Thrusting His Hand Into His

Pocket,  He Drew Out The Check He Had Written. It Fluttered In The Air,

For He Held It Unsteadily. "Here Is Something For You," He Said. "It

Is Late Coming,  Mr. Henderson,  But It Is Yours. You Will Find It All

Right."

"Mine?" The Old Man's Limp Hands Hung Down His Sides. He Saw The

Extended Check,  But Failed To Understand. He Gazed At The Quivering

Slip,  His Rigid Lips Dripping,  His Eyes Filled With Groping Suspicion.

"Yes,  It Is Yours," Mostyn Said. "I've Been Long Getting To It,  But I

Am Now Bent On Making Restitution As Far As Possible. I Can Never Wipe

Out The Trouble I've Put You To During All These Years,  But This May

Help. If You Had Held Your Interest In That Factory As I Held Mine It

Would Have Been Worth One Hundred Thousand Dollars To-Day."

"I Know It--I Know It--What The Hell--" Henderson Stared First At The

Check And Then At Mostyn. "What Do You Mean By Coming To Me At This

Late--"

"It Is My Check For A Hundred Thousand Dollars,  Payable To You,"

Mostyn Answered. "The Money Is Yours. You May Draw It Any Time You

Like."

Henderson's Hand Shot Out. The Long-Nailed Fingers Grasped The Slip Of

Paper And Bore It To His Eyes. He Stared; He Blinked; He Quivered. A

Light Flared Up In His Face And Died.

"You Don't Mean It; It Is Another One Of Your Damned Tricks," He

Gasped. "You Can't Mean That I Am To Have--"

"I Mean Nothing Else,  Mr. Henderson," Mostyn Faltered. He Moved

Forward And Laid His Hand On The Old Man's Shoulder. A Flood Of New-

Born Tenderness Rose Within Him And Surged Outward. "I Have Wronged

You Through The Best Part Of Your Life. This Is Your Money,  And I Am

Glad To Be Able To Return It."

"Mine? Oh,  God! Oh,  God! Oh,  God!" Mostyn's Hand Fell From The Sloping

Shoulder,  For Henderson Was Leaving The Room. "Wait,  Wait,  Wait!" He

Called Back,  Imploringly. "I Want My--My Daughter To Read It And See

If--If It Is Like You Say It Is. I Can't See Without My Glasses; The

Letters Run Together. I Don't Know What To Believe Or--Or What To

Doubt. Wait,  Wait,  Wait!"

Mostyn Heard Him Clattering Along The Hall,  Calling To His Daughter In

The Plaintive Voice Of An Excited Child. "Hettie,  Hettie,  Here! Come,

Daughter,  Come Look--Read This! Quick! Quick! What Does It Say?"

Mostyn Stood At The Little Window. He Heard The Infant Crying In The

Rear As If It Had Been Suddenly Neglected By Its Mother. He Heard The

Young Woman's Voice Reading The Words Written On The Check.

"He's Paying It Back!" Henderson's Voice Rose Almost To A Scream. "It

Is Twice As Much As I Put In,  Too. Oh,  Het,  We Are Rich! We Are Rich!

He Isn't So Bad,  After All! He's More Than Doing The Right Thing! Not

One Man In A Million Would Do It; He's White To The Bone! He's Had

Sorrow--Maybe That's It. They Say Trouble Will Turn A Man About. Oh,

Lord! Oh,  Lord!"

The Next Moment Henderson,  His Face Wet With Tears,  Stood In The

Narrow Doorway. He Held Out His Hand And Grasped Mostyn's. He Started

To Speak,  But Burst Into Violent Sobbing. Mostyn Was Shaken To The

Lowest Depths Of Himself. He Put His Arm About The Old Man's Shoulders

And Drew Him Against His Breast. A Thrill Of Strange,  Hitherto

Inexperienced Ecstasy Passed Through Him. He Thought Of His Dead

Child; He Thought Of His Dead Wife; He Thought Of The Mystic Preacher

Of The Mountains; He Thought Of Dolly Drake. The Whole World Was

Whirling Into New Expression. It Now Had Transcendent Meaning. At Last

He Understood. The Heights Could Not Be Seen Except From The Depths.

Joy Could Not Be Felt Till After Sorrow--Till After Total Renunciation

Of Self. What Need Had He Now Of Money? None,  That He Could See. The

World Was Full Of Glorious Things,  And The Old Man Weeping In His Arms

Was The Most Glorious Of All.

The Various Rural Sunday-Schools Were Holding An Annual Singing

Convention At Level Grove Within A Mile Of Saunders's Home. They Were

Held Once A Year And Were Largely Attended. Saunders Had Driven Over

With Mostyn,  Who Had Just Returned For A Short Visit. A Big Arbor Of

Tree-Branches Had Been Constructed,  Seated With Crude Benches Made Of

Undressed Planks. At One End There Was A Platform,  And On It A Cottage

Organ And A Speaker's Stand Holding A Pitcher Of Water And A Goblet.

Several Years Before Saunders Had Offered A Beautiful Banner As A

Prize To The Winning Sunday-School,  And Year After Year It Was Won And

Held For Twelve Months By The School Offering The Most Successful

Singers. To-Day It Leaned Against The Organ,  Its Beautiful Needlework

Glistening In The Sunlight. Wagons And Vehicles Of All Sorts Brought

Persons For Miles In Every Direction. The Weather Was Delightful,

Being Neither Warm Nor Cool. In The Edge Of The Crowd Were Lemonade

And Cider Stands,  Surrounded By Thirsty Customers. In The Edge Of The

Crowd A Confederate Veteran With An Empty Sleeve Had A Phonograph On