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The Desired Woman

W >> Will N. Harben >> The Desired Woman




"Dick got a stomach-ache," the boy said, a wry look on his rather
sallow and pinched face.

Mostyn paused and bent down. "Where does it hurt you?" he asked,
automatically, for the complaint seemed a slight thing compared to the
tragedy lowering over them both.

"It's here, Daddy." Dick put his little tapering hand on his right
side.

"He eats too many sweet things," the nurse said, coming up. "He's been
complainin' of his stomach for the last week, but he will eat what he
oughtn't to. I've got some good stomach medicine. I'm goin' to dose
'im well to-night an' make 'im stay out o' the kitchen. The cook lets
him have everything he wants."

"Give him the medicine, and tell the cook she must stop feeding him."
Mostyn took the boy in his arms and started on to the house. "You will
stop eating trash, won't you, Dick?" The child nodded, worming his
fingers through his father's hair. He took off Mostyn's hat, put it on
his bonny head, and laughed faintly. Reaching the veranda, Mostyn
turned him over to Hilda, who said she was going to give him a bath
and put him to bed. When they had gone Mostyn went into the library.
The great portrait-hung room in the shadows seemed a dreary, accusing
place, and he was turning to leave when the rustling of a newspaper
and a little nasal snort called his attention to a high-backed chair
of the wing type in which his father-in-law reclined and was just
waking from a nap.

"Oh, is that you?" Mitchell yawned and stretched his arms. "I was
wondering when you'd get here. I've been to the gate several times."

"Anything you want?" Mostyn regretted the impulsive question the
instant the words had been spoken.

The old man put his hands on the arms of the chair and stood up,
feebly. "Yes, I want to know if your wife has written or telegraphed
you since she got to Knoxville?"

"No," Mostyn thought rapidly, "but--but I hardly expected her to. She
doesn't usually when she is away."

"It is the very Old Nick in you both!" Mitchell sniffed. "I don't
expect you to know or care what she's up to; but I'm her own flesh and
blood, and supposed to be interested more or less. Home is lonely
enough when she is here in town, without her being off so much.
Besides, I know some things--humph! Well, I'm no fool, if I _am_ a
back number. To-day I made it my business to inquire if a certain
party--you know who I mean--was in town. I knew in reason that he
wouldn't be, but I just asked to satisfy my mind. Do you get at my
meaning, sir?"

"I think I do." Mostyn's own words seemed to him to come from the
heavy folds of the portiere hiding the desolate drawing-room beyond.

"I thought you would." The retort was all but a snarl. "And, do you
know, when I asked some of his friends about the club if they knew, I
caught them looking at one another in an odd sort of way with twinkles
in their eyes? Oh no, they didn't know where he was. But I found out,
all the same. I met his mother down-town. She said he had gone on a
hurried trip to Norfolk. You can see through that, can't you? I can,
if you can't. Knoxville is on the way to Norfolk. The two are at that
party together; and, not only that, I'll bet this whole town knows it.
That ought to be stopped. I know my daughter, if you don't, sir. She
is not acting right. She has plunged into pleasure and excitement till
she doesn't know what she wants. A new string of diamonds wouldn't
amuse her a minute. This giddy, fast life has actually cursed her. The
other night I caught her taking morphine tablets to make her sleep--
said she'd lie awake and think till morning if she didn't. She hasn't
contracted the habit yet, but she can easy enough if she keeps it up.
She takes a bottle of them wherever she goes. When I was young, a
woman who was a mother of a child like hers loved it, nursed it,
petted it, got natural joy out of it; but Irene seldom speaks to Dick,
and he doesn't care for her any more than for a stranger, but he loves
you--God only knows why, but he does. It is 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy' with
nearly every breath he draws."

Mostyn felt a force within him rising and expanding. A sob lodged in
his tight throat and pained him. He was grateful for the deepening
shadows, for the droning prattle from the old lips. He sank into a
chair. The droning continued, sounding far off. A thousand incidents
and faces (smiling and blending) sprang upon him out of the past--the
happy, irresponsible past, the seductive, confident, ambitious past.
Surely Fate was a mental entity, capable of crafty design against the
heedless young. He remembered the vows of chastity and honor he had
made during a revival in a country church under a blazing faith. He
recalled how soon they were forgotten, how sure he was, later on, that
Nature's physical laws were the highest known. Man was made to live,
enjoy, and conquer all if he could. And he had succeeded. He had
become rich and prosperous. Next he found his memory swimming through
that black period of satiated desire and disgust of self.

"I wish folks would not mix _me_ up with your private matters." The
words rose sharply from the senile prattle and penetrated Mostyn's
lethargy. "There's old Jeff Henderson--he had the cheek to come to me
to-day to borrow money. Said his family was in rags and starving. Said
you euchred him out of all he had and got your start on it. What in
the name of common sense does he come to _me_ for? I don't own you,
and I knew nothing about that transaction, either. I reckon he's going
crazy, but that doesn't keep him from bothering me."

Seeing the futility of explaining a thing he had many times explained,
Mostyn rose. Before him the open doorway framed an oblong patch of
calm gray sky, and toward it he moved, his mental hands impotently
outstretched, a soundless cry welling up from the depths of himself.





CHAPTER XIV




On the first morning after his permanent removal to his plantation
Jarvis Saunders waked with a boundless sense of freedom from care,
which had not been his since his boyhood. Through all his short visits
to the spot hitherto he had been haunted with the unpleasant thought
of having to return to the city and the rigid demands of business. But
it was different now. He lay in the wide, high-posted Colonial bed,
stretched himself, looked at the sunlight on the small-paned windows,
and sighed with complete content. From the outside came the chirping
of birds, the crowing of roosters, the cackle of hens, the quacking of
ducks, the scream of geese, the thwack of an ax at the wood-pile, the
mellow song of the lank negro chopper, Uncle Zeke, one of the ex-
slaves of his family.

Rising and standing at a window, and parting the pink and blue
morning-glories which overhung it in dew-dipped freshness, Saunders
looked down into the yard. He saw Aunt Maria, Zeke's portly wife,
approach from the kitchen door and begin to fill her apron with the
chips his ax had strewn upon the ground.

"You go on en ring dat fus' breakfus'-bell, Zeke," she said,
peremptorily. "De fus' litter o' biscuits is raidy to slide in de
stove, en de chicken en trout is fried brown. Everthing is got ter be
des right dis fus' mawnin' dat Marse Jarvis is home ter stay. Fifteen
minutes is long 'nough fer 'im ter dress."

"Ring de bell _yo'se'f_, 'ooman!" Zeke laughed, loudly. "Yo' gittin'
so heavy en waddly yo' don' want ter turn yo' han's over. Look yer,
'ooman, Marse Jarvis ain't gwine ter let yo' cook fer 'im regular,
nohow. He gwine ter fix de house up spank new, fum top ter bottom, en
git de ol' 'fo'-de-wah style back ergin. He gwine ter sen' away off
som'er's fer er spry up-date cook. Yo' know what, 'ooman? I'm gwine be
his head house-servant, I is. My place'll be in de front hall ter mix
mint-juleps fo' 'im en his frien's fum de city when dey skeet by in
deir automobiles en stop over fer er smoke en er howdy-do. He gwine
ter order me er long-tail, jimswingin' blue coat. He done say dat
he'll look ter me ter keep you-all's j'ints oiled up so yo' won't
walk in yo' sleep so much in de day-time."

"Go 'long, yo' fool nigger!" Maria sniffed, as she shook her chips
down into her apron. "When Marse Jarvis stick er black scarecrow lak
yo' in de front part de house he shore will be out his senses. He
gwine ter mek yo' haul manure wid er dump-cart, dat what he is."

Saunders smiled as he stepped back and began to dress. "God bless
their simple, loyal souls!" he said. "They shall never suffer as long
as I live. My parents loved them, and so do I."

At the sound of the second bell he went downstairs. How cool,
spacious, and inviting everything looked! The oblong drawing-room,
into which he glanced in passing, with its white wainscoting and
beautiful oriel window at the end on the left of the entrance-hall,
brought back many memories of his childhood and youth. He recalled the
gay assemblages of summer visitors to his father and mother from
Augusta and Charleston--the dances, the horseback rides, the hunting-
parties, the music, the singing of hymns on Sundays.

"I must bring it all back," he mused. "That was normal living."

These memories followed him to the great dining-room in the rear of
the house. As he took his usual seat at the head of the long table the
delicious aroma of fine coffee, the smell of frying meats and hot
biscuits came in from the adjoining kitchen. The wide fireplace had
been freshly whitewashed, and was filled with the resinous boughs of
young pines. The several windows were open, and through them he had
glimpses of his verdant lands and the mountains beyond. The portraits
of his mother, father, and grandparents seemed to smile down from
their massive frames on the white walls. The same silverware and cut
glass which they had used were before him on the mahogany sideboard;
the same china.

Aunt Maria had put the hot, tempting dishes before him and gone away.
The pot of coffee was steaming at his side. Suddenly an impulse, half
sentimental, came over him which he could not resist. He recalled how
his father had always said grace; and, bowing his head, he whispered
the long-silent words over his unturned plate and folded napkin. How
odd! he thought: it was as if the short prayer had been laid upon his
lips by the spirit of his father; the fervent "Amen" seemed to be
echoed by his mother's voice from the opposite end of the board.
Saunders's soul was suddenly filled with a transcendent ecstasy. His
parents seemed to be actually present, invisible, and yet flooding his
being with their spiritual essence.

"Surely," he said, the wonder of the thing bursting upon him like
ineffable light, "there is 'a peace which passeth understanding.'"

After breakfast he went to the front veranda to smoke. He saw Tom
Drake walking across a meadow to some drainage ditches which were
being dug to destroy some objectionable marshes. The results of the
man's work as manager had been more than satisfactory.

Presently Saunders descried a few hundred yards down the main road a
woman on a horse. It was Dolly Drake; and, throbbing with delight, he
hastened down to the gate, thinking that she might be coming to speak
to her father, and would need assistance in alighting. But she had no
intention of stopping, and with a merry bow was about to ride by when
he stepped out and playfully held up his hands.

"Your money or your life!" he cried.

She reined the spirited young black horse in and sat jauntily on the
side-saddle. Her color was high; she wore a pretty riding-hat, a
close-fitting gray habit, and her eyes were sparkling from the
exhilaration of the gallop along the level road.

"Take my life, but for Heaven's sake spare my money!" she retorted,
with an ironical laugh.

"I think I have some news for you," he said, approaching and testing
the girth of her saddle. "Sit still and let me draw it tighter."

"News," she said, with the eagerness of a child, as he pulled upward
on the strap, "for me?"

"Yes, for you. I knew you would be interested in the bill before the
House and Senate, and so I asked the Governor to write me if it went
through."

"Oh, oh! and did you hear?" She leaned closer to him, her lips rigid
with expectation. "I'm afraid there was a hitch after all. The
taxpayers are so opposed to spending money."

"It went through like greased lightning," he smiled. "Your name and
suggestions were mentioned in every speech that was made in both
houses."

He saw her face fill with delight. She put the butt of her riding-whip
to her lips, and her breast heaved high and sank, quivering.

"Oh, isn't it splendid--splendid?" she exclaimed.

"Thanks to you, Dolly--you, and no one else."

"No, no, it was growing all along. I only helped a little, perhaps.
But it doesn't matter who did it; it is done. They will build the
schools."

"And you and I will help with suggestions, won't we?" He looked at
her, quite timidly. "I mean, of course, that we have learned some
lessons in the house we are now building. We have made mistakes here
and there that may be avoided in the future."

She said nothing, and he was sure that she purposely avoided his
tentative stare. She bent over the horse's neck, ran the thick glossy
mane through her fingers, and gently patted the animal's shoulder.

"Jarvis, you must tell me something about this horse," she said,
firmly. "I'm going to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth."

"You want to know his pedigree?" He was staring sheepishly. "Well--"

"No, I don't, and you know I don't. My father said that you wanted the
horse kept in the stable at home in case--in case any one had to ride
over here to communicate with him. But no one uses him but me, and he
has to have exercise or he will be ruined. It is almost all that I can
do to control him now. He breaks into a run the instant another horse
passes him. Father said yesterday that he did not understand why you
wanted us to keep him at our house."

The blood mantled the young planter's brow. "They say an honest
confession is good for the soul," he stammered; "and, Dolly, the truth
is that I sent the horse there simply for you to ride. You love riding
and need the exercise. You are so peculiar about--well, about some
things--that I was afraid you would be offended, but I hope you won't
refuse this. I do love to see you on a horse. You ride as if you were
born in the saddle."

She looked down on the farther side of her mount. "It is very, very
sweet and kind of you," she said, falteringly. "I believe you mean it,
still--" She broke off and failed to finish what she had started to
say.

"You must not object," he went on, urgently. "It suits your father and
me to keep a horse there, and if you are good enough to exercise him
for us, well and good. If not, we'll send one of the negroes over to
take him out once a day."

He saw her smile faintly. "Nobody could get around you," she answered.
"Well, it really would break my heart to give him up now, and I shall
ride him whenever I feel like it."

There was silence for a moment, which he broke.

"I am arranging a little surprise for your father." He nodded toward
the grounds behind him. "Won't you get down and come in a moment?"

"What is it?" She was already kicking the stirrup from her eager foot.

"Come in and see." He held out his arms, as if she were a child
willing to jump.

"You know my awful curiosity," she laughed, putting her hands on his
shoulders and leaning downward. Her face sank close to his--so close
that her breath fanned his cheek. He took her slight weight on himself
as he helped her down. Throwing the rein over one of the palings, he
opened the gate and stood aside for her to enter.

"What is it? Why are you so awfully mysterious?" she asked.

"Because my surprise may not come up to your expectations," he said.
"Come with me."

He led her across the lawn to a small one-roomed brick house at the
side of the main building, adjoining the white glass-roofed
conservatory. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and
pushed it open and invited her to go in. She found herself in a well-
lighted room comfortably furnished with easy-chairs, rugs, and a fine
roll-top desk, supplied with new account-books and writing-material of
all kinds.

"It is to be your father's private office," Saunders explained. "But
he doesn't know it. It struck me that he would need a place like this
to meet the hands in on pay-days and to do his writing. The furniture
came yesterday. He superintended the unloading himself. He thinks the
office is for me."

Involuntarily Dolly clasped her hands in sheer delight.

"Oh, how good you are!" she cried. "Nothing you could possibly do
would please him more. You have given him his old pride back, Jarvis,
and this will add to it. I have been wanting to speak to you about
him, but I hardly knew how. He is absolutely a new man in every way,
and it is all due to your confidence and encouragement."

He found himself without available response. She sat down in the
revolving desk-chair and picked up a pen and pretended to write. "It
is simply 'scrumptious!'" she laughed, merrily. "Oh, I should like--"
she stopped abruptly, stood up, and looked at the door. "I must be
going. Why, you've even given him a clock. And the maps on the walls
will be very useful. That's our county, isn't it?"

As he nodded he followed her to the grass outside. "You started to say
that you would like something," he ventured. "What was it, Dolly?"

"I should really like to be present when you show it to him and tell
him that it is for him. Jarvis, I almost lost respect for him once. I
almost ceased to love him, but it has all come back. I am proud of him
again, and you are responsible for it. Why did you do so much for
him?"

"Because he is _your_ father!" He nipped the words as they were
forming on his lips. Instead, he said aloud: "He is just the man I
needed. We are working finely together. You must be present when I
tell him about the office; he will be here this afternoon. I will
detain him with some pretext or other till three o'clock. Couldn't you
be here then?"

"Oh yes, and I'd like to bring my mother, Uncle John, and George."

"A good idea," Saunders said. "We'll have some fresh cider and cakes--
the old-fashioned gingerbread sort."

When they had reached her horse, he held out his hand for her foot.
She placed it in it, and he lightly lifted her to the saddle.

He stood at the gate and saw her vanish down the road. "Why didn't I
say what I want to say? Why didn't I tell her how I feel and throw
myself on her mercy? What is it that always checks me? Is it Mostyn?
My God! does she still love him, and will he always stand between me
and my happiness?"





CHAPTER XV




For Mostyn the week which ensued after his wife's secret elopement was
a period of sheer mental torture. Every minute he expected the
startling tidings to reach his friends and associates. Every morning
at breakfast he studied the crafty and sullen face of old Mitchell and
the swarthy visages of the servants to see if suspicions of the truth
were dawning. At the bank he tried to overhear the conversations of
the bookkeepers, sometimes fancying that a burst of low laughter or a
whispered colloquy had him for their incentive. He was sure that it
was little less than a miracle that the matter had not leaked out.
With Delbridge getting into harness at his desk, he had considerable
time on his hands, which he spent in long nervous walks, generally in
the suburbs of the city. For that week he wholly neglected his child.
There was something unbearable in the thought of the boy's future
social status, left in the care, as he was, of an all but witless
grandfather and a father upon whom the contempt of the public was so
soon to fall. Infinitely horrible was the reflection that little Dick
would inevitably grow into a comprehension of the family calamity and
inquire as to its causes. It was Saturday night, eight days after the
elopement. Mostyn had that day been irritated--that is, as much as a
man in his plight could be irritated by any extraneous incident--by
Delbridge's open criticism of the negligent condition of some of his
accounts. The work of going over the books with his successor in
rectifying really glaring mistakes detained him at the bank till late
at night. It was twelve o'clock when he finally reached home, ascended
to his room, and began to undress. He had thrown off his coat, when he
heard voices and movements in the nursery adjoining his room. At once
he was all attention. He had his usual overpowering yearning to see
his child. It was as if the touch of the boy's little hand or a glance
from his innocent young eyes might mildly soothe his lacerated
spirits. It was the cry of kindred blood to kindred blood from the
darkest deeps of despair--the incongruous cry of parent to offspring.
He overheard the impatient tone of the drowsy nurse, and the fainter,
rather rambling accents of the child.

"You go to sleep!" Hilda called out. "You'll disturb yo' pa. He just
come home, an' he don't want no noise fum yo' this time o' night."

The gas was burning in the nursery, as was shown by the pencil of
light beneath the door. Mostyn turned the bolt and looked into the
room. A breath of warmer air told him that the servant had again
neglected to open the windows sufficiently. He went to Dick's little
bed, turning the overhead gas higher as he did so. The child looked
up, recognized him, and with a cry of welcome held out his arms.
Mostyn, bending down, felt the little hands clasp his neck. They were
dry and hot. Dick's cheeks were flushed red.

"What ails him?" Mostyn cried, aghast, turning to Hilda, who had
risen, thrown on a wrapper, and stood at the table, where a bottle and
a spoon lay.

"I think he's got er little bit er fever, sir," she said. "It is his
stomach gone wrong ergin. I'm givin' 'im his fever-mixture now."

"It hurts right here, Daddy." Dick made a wry face as he bravely
pressed his hand on the lower part of his right side. "Dick couldn't
play to-day."

"How long has he had fever?" Mostyn demanded, sharply.

"Jes' to-day, I think, sir. I never noticed it till dis evenin' about
an hour by sun. He's been complainin' of his stomach fer mo'n a week,
but dat is 'cause he eats--"

"It may be something serious." The words shrank back from utterance.
"Why didn't you send for the doctor?"

"Huh!" the nurse sniffed, resentfully. "Yo' all expect me ter ten' ter
everything. I _did_ tell his grandpa, but he didn't even know what I
was talkin' about, jabberin' all de time about Miss Irene stayin' off
so long, en--en I don't know what all--_you_ an' _yo'_ doin's 'long
wid de rest."

The woman was approaching with the bottle and spoon. "Don't give him
any more of that stuff." He waved it away. "I'll send for Dr. Loyd at
once."

"Oh, Daddy, I don't want the doctor!" Dick began to whimper and cling
more tightly round his father's neck.

"He won't hurt you; he is a good man," Mostyn said, tenderly. "He will
give you something to make you cool off, so you can sleep."

Mostyn left the room and groped his way down to the telephone in the
lower hall. A new fear had clutched him, a fear so compelling that all
else was forgotten. A chill of grim, accusing horror was on him. His
brain was in a whirl as he tried to recall the desired number. Did
Providence, Fate, or whatever the ruling force was, intend this as his
crowning punishment? Had the impalpable hand, reaching for him,
descended on his offspring? He finally got the doctor's servant on the
'phone, then Dr. Loyd himself, who had just arrived in his automobile.

"Have you taken his temperature?" was the doctor's first question.

"No, we haven't a thermometer, and do not know how to use one,
anyway."

"Well, I'll be out immediately," was the brusque answer. "I must see
him to-night--don't exactly like the symptoms. I saw him in driving
past your home the other day, and did not quite like his looks."

Mostyn dragged himself up the stairs. Passing Mitchell's room, he half
paused at the door. Should he wake him and explain the situation? He
decided against it. The child's condition would only loosen the man's
pent-up wrath in the presence of the physician and perhaps delay the
examination. He went back to the nursery, and, lifting Dick in his
arms, he bore him into his own room, which was cooler. He dampened a
towel in ice-water, folded it, and laid it on the flushed brow.

"That feels nice, Daddy," Dick smiled, grimly, "but it hurts here,"
putting his hand gingerly on his side.

A few minutes later the doctor's car was heard on the drive. Mostyn
descended to meet him. They shook hands formally, and Mostyn led him
up the stairs to the patient. The doctor was past middle age, iron-
gray, full-whiskered, and stockily built. He took the child's
temperature, and looked grave as he glanced at the thermometer under
the drop-light, and washed it in a glass of water.

"One-hundred and five!" he said, crisply. "Big risks have been taken,
Mostyn. I only hope my fears are groundless."

"Your fears?"

But the doctor seemed not to hear. He raised the child's thin night-
shirt and passed his fingers gently over the abdomen.

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