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

And Help Her With Her Wraps. So Long,  Old Man."

Mostyn Made Some Inarticulate Response Of No Import In Particular,  And

Dropped Back,  Allowing Buckton To Stride On To The Veranda,  His Hat

Jauntily Swinging At His Side. Irene Was Now In The Doorway,  Poised

Like A Picture In A Frame.

Slinking Farther Away Beneath The Trees And Behind Shrubbery,  Mostyn

Heard The Greetings Between The Two,  And Saw Them Shaking Hands,

Standing Face To Face. Irene Looked So Young,  So Different From The

Calculating Woman Who Had Just Asserted Her Financial And Marital

Rights In Her Chamber. No Wonder That Her Escort Was Fascinated When

She Had So Long Been Withheld From Him! Mostyn Told Himself That He

Well Knew The "Stolen-Sweets" Sensation. He Peered Above A Clump Of

Boxwood Like A Thief,  Upon Grounds To Which He Was Unaccustomed,  And

Watched Them As They Got Into The Trap. Irene's Rippling Laugh,  And

Buckton's Satisfied Response As He Tucked The Robes About Her,  Seemed

Things Of Satanic Design. They Were Off. The Restive Pair,  With High-

Reined,  Arching Necks,  Trotted Down The Drive To The Street,  And A

Moment Later Were Out Of Sight.

Mostyn Went Into The House,  Back To The Desolate Dining-Room,  And Sat

Down In His Chair At The Head Of The Table. The Maid Who Came To

Receive His Order And Turn On A Fuller Light Had A Look In Her Eyes

Which Indicated That She Was Aware Of His Mood. He Would Have Resented

It Had He Dared,  But It Was Only One Of Many Things Which Had Of Late

Grated On Him But Could Not Be Prevented.

"Has Mr. Mitchell Had His Supper?" Mostyn Asked,  Applying Himself

Reluctantly To The Simple Repast Before Him.

"Yes,  Sir,  And Gone Up To His Room," The Girl Answered. "He Is Out Of

Sorts To-Day. I Have Never Seen Him So Troublesome. He Has Threatened

To Discharge Us All."

"Don't Mind Him." Mostyn's Voice Sounded To Him As If Uttered By Some

Tongue Other Than His Own. He Half Fancied That The Maid,  For Reasons

Peculiar To Her Class,  Had A Sort Of Contempt For Him. She,  As Well As

The Other Servants,  No Doubt Thought Of Him As Having Married For

Money,  Mitchell's Fortune Being So Much Larger Than His Own Diminished

And Ever-Lessening Capital.

Supper Over,  He Went Back To The Veranda. Should He Go To The Club,  As

He Sometimes Did To Pass An Evening? He Had A Feeling Against It. He

Did Not Care For Cards Or Drinking,  And They Were The Chief Amusements

Indulged In By The Habitual Loungers About The Rooms. There Might Be

Some Summer Play On At One Of The Theaters,  But As A Rule They Were

Very Poor At That Season Of The Year,  And He Knew He Had A Frame Of

Mind Which Could Not Be Diverted. At This Juncture He Became Conscious

Of Something Of An Almost Startling Nature. It Was An Undefinable,

Even Maternal Feeling That He Ought To Stay With His Child. He

Shrugged His Shoulders And Smiled At The Sheer Absurdity Of The Idea,

Yet It Clung To Him Persistently. He Tried To Analyze It; It Eluded

Analysis. It Had Haunted Him Before,  And The Time Had Always Been When

Irene Was Away. Was It Some Strange Psychic Sympathy Or Bond Of Blood

Between His Motherless Offspring And Himself? Was His Guilty Soul

Whispering To Him That He Was Responsible For The Deserted Human Bud,

And That He,  Man Though He Was,  Should Give It The Care And Love

Denied It?

Obeying An Impulse He Could Not Put Down,  He Turned Into The House And

Softly Ascended The Stairs. The Door Of The Nursery Was Open. A Low-

Turned Light Was Burning In A Night-Lamp On The Bureau. The Nurse Was

Below Eating With The Other Servants. He Was Alone And Unobserved. The

Child Was Asleep In Its Little White Bed,  And He Crept Forward And

Looked Down Upon It. The Night Being Warm,  Little Richard Was Not

Covered,  And,  With His Shapely Legs And Fair Breast Exposed,  He Lay

Asleep. There Was A Suggestion Of A Smile On The Beautiful Face,  The

Pink Lips Were Parted,  The Dainty Fingers Were Clutched As If Holding

Some Dream-Object Tight In Their Clasp.

With A Sigh That Was Almost Audible The Father Turned Away. At The

Door He Glanced Back,  Having Noted The Intense Warmth Of The Room. The

Nurse,  As Many Of Her Tropical Race Are Apt To Do,  Had Forgotten To

Ventilate The Chamber. The Two Windows Were Closed. Angrily He Crept

Across The Carpeted Floor And Noiselessly Raised The Sashes As High As

They Would Go,  Feeling The Fresh Air Stream In. With A Parting Glance

At The Sleeper He Withdrew.

Descending The Stairs,  He Went Out On The Lawn Again. Even That Scrap

Of Nature's Realm Had A Tendency To Soothe His Snarled Sensibilities.

It Might Have Been The Dew Which Was Rising And Cooling His Feet,  Or

The Pale,  Blinking Stars,  The Sedative Rays Of Which Seemed To

Penetrate To His Seething Brain. He Remembered John Leach's Sermon

That Day In The Mountains At The Cross-Roads Store. The Fellow Had

Found Something. He Had Found The Way Of The Life Spiritual,  And It

Had Come To Him Through Sin,  Suffering,  Humiliation,  And Final Self-

Immolation. Mostyn Recalled The Resolutions He Had Made Under The

Influence Of The Man's Compelling Eloquence; He Recalled The Breaking

Of The Resolutions. He Thought Of Dolly Drake,  And Groaned In Actual

Pain Of Body And Soul. He Told Himself That He Had Then Deliberately

Trampled Under Foot His Last Spiritual Opportunity. "Dolly Drake,

Dolly Drake!" The Words,  Unuttered Though They Were By Lips Which He

Felt Were Too Profane For Such Use,  Seemed To Float Like Notes Of

Accusing Music. Saunders Had Said She Was More Beautiful Than Ever.

She Might Have Been His But For His Weakness. Perhaps She Still

Thought Of Him Now And Then. If She Could Know Of This Unconquerable

Despair,  She Would Pity Him. How Sweet Such Pity As Hers Would Be! A

Sob Struggled Up Within Him And Threatened To Burst; He Felt The Sharp

Pain Of Suppression In His Breast. It Was As If His Soul Was Urging

His Too-Callous Body To Weep. Dolly Was As Unobtainable As The Heaven

Of The Tramp Preacher's Vision. For Mostyn Only Protracted Evil Was

Now Available,  And That Was Sickening To His Very Thought.

He Wondered,  Seeing That It Was Now Ten O'clock,  If He Could Go To

Sleep. In Deep Sleep He Would Be Able To Forget. He Decided To Try. He

Went Up To His Room,  And,  Aided Only By The Moonlight,  Which Fell

Through The Windows,  He Undressed And Threw Himself Down On His Bed.

For An Hour He Was Wakeful. He Was Just Becoming Drowsy When He Heard

Voices In The Nursery Across The Hall. He Recognized The Sharp,

Scolding Voice Of The Nurse,  And The Timid Reply Of The Child. Rising,

Mostyn Went To The Open Door Of The Nursery And Looked In.

"What Is It?" He Asked.

"He Is Begging To Go To Your Bed," The Woman Answered,  Peevishly.

"You've Spoiled Him,  Mr. Mostyn. He Wants To Do It Every Night. He Is

Getting Worse And Worse."

A Thrill Of Delight,  Yearning Delight,  Passed Over The Father. He

Stood Silent For A Moment,  Ashamed To Have Even The Black Servant

Suspect What He So Keenly Desired.

"Daddy,  Dick Wants You," A Voice Soft,  Tremulous,  And Unspeakably

Appealing Came From The Little Bed.

"Hush,  And Go To Sleep!" The Nurse Called Out. "You Are A Bad Boy,

Keeping Us Awake Like This."

"No,  Let Him Come," Mostyn Said,  In A Voice Which Was Husky,  And Shook

Against His Will. "Come,  Dick!"

The Little White-Robed Form Slid Eagerly From The Bed And Fairly Ran

To The Arms Which Were Hungrily Outstretched. With The Soft Body

Against His Breast,  A Confident Arm About His Neck,  The Father Bore

Him To His Room And Put Him Down On The Back Side Of The Wide Bed.

"Now You Will Sleep,  Won't You?" He Said,  His Voice Exultantly Tender.

"Yes,  Daddy." Dick Stretched His Pretty Legs Out Straight. Silence

Filled The Room; The Mystic Rays Of Moonlight Falling In At The Window

Seemed To Bring With Them The Despondent Murmur Of The City Outside.

The Deep,  Fragrant Breathing Of The Child Soon Showed That He Was

Asleep. Cautiously Mostyn Propped Himself Up On His Elbow And Looked

Into The Placid Face. "He Has My Brow," He Mused,  Bitterly; "My Hands;

My Ears; My Long Ringers,  With Their Curving Nails; My Slender Ankles

And High-Instepped Feet; And,  My God! He Has My Telltale Sensual Lips.

Here Am I In The Throes Of A Hell Produced By Infinite Laws. What Is

To Prevent Him--The Helpless Replica Of Myself--From Taking The Way I

Took? The Edge Of The Alluring Abyss Will Crumble Under His Blind

Tread As It Crumbled Under Mine,  And This--This--This Cloying Horror

Which Is On Me To-Night May Be My Gift To Him--For Whose Sake I Would

Die--Yes,  Die!"

Silently Mostyn Left The Bed And Took A Seat On The Broad Sill Of One

Of The Windows Overlooking The Lawn.

"What Will Be The End?" He Asked Himself. "It Can't Go On Like This. I

Am Not Man Enough To Stand It. If I Were Not Afraid Of Death,  I Would

--No,  I Wouldn't"--He Glanced At The Bed--"I Am Responsible For His

Being Here. He Is The Flower Of My Corruption. God May Desert Him,  But

I Won't. I Will Protect Him,  Love Him,  Pity Him,  Care For Him To The

End."

A Cold Drop Fell On His Hand And Trickled Through His Fingers. He Was

Weeping.