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

Horns In Earnest. He Smiled As He Thought That Many Would Think His

Relations With Marie Had Never Been Broken,  But Had Only Been Adroitly

Concealed Out Of Respect For A Wife Who No Longer Deserved Such

Delicate Consideration. The Town Would Talk; Let Them--Let Them! Its

Tongue Was Already Active On One Side Of The Matter; It Should Be Fed

With A Morsel Or Two From The Other. Richard Mostyn Was Himself Again.

Mostyn Remained In His Office Till Eight O'clock That Evening,  Writing

Letters About An Investment In The West Which Had Been Threatening

Loss. Closing His Desk And Lowering The Lights,  He Decided To Walk

Home And Dress For His Visit To Marie. The Exercise In The Fresh Air

Made Him More Determined In His New Move. A Society Man He Knew Drove

Past In A Glittering Tally-Ho Filled With Young Ladies. One Of The Men

Recognized Him In The Arc Light Swinging Over The Street And Blew A

Playful Blast At Him From One Of The Long Horns. The Gay Party Whisked

Around A Corner And Disappeared.

Reaching Home And Entering The Gate,  He Saw His Father-In-Law Striding

Back And Forth On The Veranda,  And As He Came Up The Walk The Old Man

Turned,  Pausing At The Head Of The Steps.

"Do You Know Where Irene Is?" He Inquired,  Pettishly.

"I Haven't The Slightest Idea." Mostyn's Retort Was Full Of Almost

Genuine Indifference. "I Have Quit Keeping Track Of Her Ladyship."

His New Note Of Defiance Was Lost On Mitchell,  Who Seemed Quite

Disturbed. "I Haven't Seen Her Since Breakfast," He Said,

Complainingly. "I Thought She Had Gone To Some Morning Affair,  But

When Lunch Came And Passed And No Sign Of Her I Thought Surely She

Would Be Home To Supper; But That's Over,  And She Isn't Here. Have You

Happened To See Andy Buckton About Town To-Day?"

"No,  I Haven't," Mostyn Answered,  Sharply. "I See Your Drift,  Sir,  And

Your Point Is Well Taken. If You Want To Find Your Daughter,  Telephone

Around For Buckton. As For Me,  I Don't Care Enough About It To

Bother."

"You Needn't Sniff And Sneer," Mitchell Threw Back,  Sharply. "You Are

As Much To Blame For The Way Things Are Going As She Is. The Devil Is

In You Both As Big As A House. Old-Fashioned Southern Ways Are Not

Good Enough For You; Having A Little Money Has Driven You Crazy. Irene

Was All Right,  No New Toy To Play With Till Buckton Ran Into That

Fortune,  And Now Nothing Will Hold Her Down. She Used To Fancy She

Cared For Him,  And,  Now That He Has Plenty Of Funds,  She Is Sure Of

It. The Society Of This Town,  Sir,  Is Rotten To The Core. It Is Trying

To Be French,  Trying To Imitate Foreign Nobility And The New York Four

Hundred. I Am Not Pitying Myself; I'm Not Sorry For You,  For You Are A

Cold-Blooded Proposition That Nothing Can Touch; But I _Am_ Pitying

That Helpless Child Of Yours. I Reckon You Can Turn In And Sleep As

Sound As A Log To-Night,  Whether Your Wife Comes Home Or Not,  But I

Can't."

A Sudden Fear That Little Dick Might Hear The Rising Old Voice Came

Over Mostyn,  And He Restrained The Angry Retort That Throbbed On His

Lips. Ascending The Steps,  He Went Into His Room To Prepare For His

Visit. How Odd,  But The Vengeful Force Of His Contemplated Retaliation

Had Lessened! As He Stood At His Bureau Taking Out Some Necessary

Articles From A Drawer He Felt His Old Morbidness Roll Back Over Him

Like A Wave. Was It Mitchell's Petulant Complaints Of His Daughter's

Conduct,  Or Was It What He Had Said About His Grandchild? It Was The

Latter; Mostyn Was Sure Of It,  For All At Once He Had The Overpowering

Yearning For The Boy Which Had So Completely Dominated Him Of Late. He

Dropped The Articles Back Into The Drawer And Stood Listening. Dick

Must Be Asleep By This Time. But No,  That Was A Voice From The

Direction Of The Nursery. It Was The Low Tones Of Hilda The Nurse.

"Now,  Go To Sleep," She Was Saying. "You Must Stop Rollin' An'

Tumblin' An' Talkin'."

"I Know It _Is_ My Daddy," The Childish Voice Was Heard Saying. "He Is

In His Room,  And I Want To Sleep In His Bed."

"You _Can't_ Sleep In His Bed," The Nurse Scolded. "You Must Be Quiet

And Go To Sleep."

Mostyn Crept Across The Room To The Door And Stood Listening,  Holding

His Breath And Trying To Still The Audible Throbbing Of His Heart. He

Heard Dick Sobbing. Pushing The Door Open,  Mostyn Looked Into The

Room,  Feeling The Gas-Heated Air Beat Back Into His Face As He Did So.

In The Light At A Small Table The Nurse Sat Sewing,  And She Glanced

Up.

"What Is Dick Crying About?" He Demanded.

"Because He's Bad," Was The Reply. "He's Been Bad All Day. In All My

Born Days I've Never Seen Such A Bothersome Child. He Began Cryin' To

Go To The Bank Just After You Left This Mornin'. He Made Such A Fuss

That His Mother Had To Whip 'Im,  But It Didn't Do 'Im A Bit O' Good.

He Has Been Watchin' The Gate For You All Day,  Threatenin' To Tell

You. He Doesn't Care For Nobody In The World But You--Not Even His

Grandfather. I Reckon You've Spoiled 'Im,  Sir,  Pettin' 'Im Up So

Much."

Mostyn Crossed Over To Dick's Bed And Looked Down On The Tear-Marked

Face. The Child's Breast Was Spasmodically Quivering With Suppressed

Sobs. His Lips Were Swollen; There Was A Red Mark On The Broad White

Brow,  Against Which The Locks Lay Like Pliant Gold.

"What Caused This?" Mostyn Demanded,  Pointing To The Spot.

"It Is Where His Mother Slapped 'Im This Mornin'. She Had To Do It. He

Was Cryin' An' Kickin' An' Wouldn't Pay No 'Tention To 'Er. He Kept Up

Such A'sturbance That She Couldn't Dress To Go Out. He Said He Was

Goin' To The Bank To Tell You,  An' He Got Clean Down The Street 'Fore

I Saw 'Im."

The Child Was Looking Straight Into Mostyn's Eyes. To Him The

Expression Was Fathomless.

"What Is The Matter,  Dick?" He Asked.

"I Want My Daddy," The Boy Sobbed. "I Don't Like Hilda; I Don't Like

Mama; I Don't Like Grandpa; I Want To Sleep In Your Room."

"Not To-Night,  Dick." Mostyn Touched The Angry Spot On The Brow

Lightly And Bent Down Lower. "I Have To Go Out This Evening. I Have An

Engagement."

The Look Of Despair Darkening The Little Flushed Face Went Straight To

The Heart Of The Father,  And Yet He Said: "You Must Go To Sleep Now. I

Must Hurry. I Have To Dress. Good Night."

Mostyn Went Back To His Bureau. The Reflection Of His Face In The

Tilted Mirror Caught And Held His Attention. Could That Harsh

Semblance Of A Man Be Himself? Various Periods Of His Life Flashed In

Separate Pictures Before Him. Glimpses Of His College Days; This And

That Gay Prank Of Irresponsible Youth. Then Came Incidents Of His

First Business Ventures; His Dealings With Jefferson Henderson Stood

Out Sharply. The Old Man's First Intuitive Fears Of Coming Loss Rang

In His Ears,  Followed By Curses Of Helpless,  Astounded Despair. One

After Another These Things Piled Thick And Fast Upon Him. He Saw His

First Meeting With Marie; Then That Crisis,  The Transcendent Uplift In

The Mountains,  When For The First Time In His Life He Actually Reached

For Something Beyond And Above Himself Through The Mediumship Of Dolly

Drake,  That Wonderful Embodiment Of The,  For Him,  Unattainable. He Had

Lost Out There. He Had Slipped At The Foot Of The Heights Up Which She

Was Leading Him.

He Heard The Gate-Latch Click,  And Old Mitchell's Thumping Tread On

The Veranda Steps As He Descended To Meet Some One. Going To A Window

And Parting The Curtains Cautiously,  Mostyn Looked Down On The Walk.

It Was His Wife. He Saw Her Meet Her Father,  But She Did Not Slacken

Her Brisk Walk Toward The House.

"Where Have You Been All Day?" The Old Man Demanded,  Following Behind.

"I Don't Have To Tell You," Irene Answered. "You Are Driving Me Crazy

With Your Eternal Suspicions. If I Keep On Answering Your Questions

You Will Never Stop. Let Me Alone. You Needn't Watch Me Like A Hawk. I

Am Old Enough To Take Care Of Myself."

An Inarticulate Reply Came Up From The Old Man,  And The Next Moment

Mostyn Heard Irene Ascending The Stairs. The Door Of Her Room Opened

And Shut. Mostyn Distinctly Heard The Turning Of The Key. He Looked At

His Watch. It Was Half Past Eight. He Would Have To Hurry To Catch A

Car. He Went Back To The Bureau.

At This Instant Something Happened. Hearing A Low Sound And Looking In

The Glass,  He Saw A Little White-Robed Figure Creeping Stealthily

Across The Floor To His Bed. He Pretended Not To See,  And Watched Dick

As He Softly Crept Between The Sheets. Turning Round,  He Caught The

Boy's Sheepish Stare,  Which Suddenly Became A Look Of Grim,  Even

Defiant,  Determination.

"Why Did You Come,  Dick?" He Asked,  And As He Spoke He Crept Toward

The Bed Like A Man In A Dream Drawn To Some Ravishing Delight. He Sat

Down On The Edge Of The Bed. He Caught The Child's Little Hand In His

Own. The Nerves Of His Whole Yearning Soul Seemed Centered In His

Fingers.

"Daddy"--The Boy Hesitated; His Words Hung As If Entangled In A Fear

Of Refusal--"Let Me Stay In Your