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The Desired Woman

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




Cold from head to foot, Saunders retreated out of sight behind a clump
of bushes. Figuratively, he raised his hands to the impotent sky and
dumbly cried within himself:

"Oh, God, give me strength to bear it like a man! I was wrong in
hoping. She is his; she loves him. She loves him. I am an outsider. I
now know why I never dared tell her of my love--my adoration! It was
the still, inner voice of warning telling me to keep in my proper
place."

Presently he saw Dolly alone near the arbor, and, remembering his
engagement with her, he went to her.

"I have come to see if you would care to go now," he began. "I believe
there is only some irregular singing and speech-making to follow."

"I am free," she said. "My part of the work is over. I refuse to touch
the stiff keys of that organ again to-day. My wrists are sore, and my
ankles ache. But I've been thinking over that ride, Jarvis. I want to
go, of course, but--Jarvis, I hope you are not oversensitive. In fact,
I know you are not, and will understand when I say that somehow--don't
you know?--somehow, I don't like to leave this particular afternoon,
when there is so much to be done here. There are several boys and
girls who are anxious to sing and be heard, and some of my young men
friends are to speak. We might take our ride some other day."

"I understand, Dolly," he said, forcing a smile. He told himself that
this last hint ended all. She and Mostyn were reconciled, and she
wanted him to understand the situation. They were quite alone. No one
was near enough to hear their voices. Suddenly an overpowering impulse
possessed him. Why should he beat about the bush? All was lost, but
she should at least receive the tribute of his love and despair. There
could be no harm in telling her how he felt. His forced smile died on
his lips. His eyes met hers.

"There was something I was going to tell you," he began, firmly. "All
these years I've been holding it back, but I can't any longer. Dolly,
you must have known that--"

"Stop, Jarvis!" she broke in, laying her hand on his arm. "I know what
you are going to say, but don't! Some day I'll explain, but not now--
not now!"

"Well, you know what I mean." he gulped, "and that is enough. You must
have seen--must have understood all along."

"Don't--don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "You will understand it
all fully some day. I may be an odd sort of girl, but I can't help it-
-I
am simply what I am."

"I think I understand now," he said, "and I wish you all happiness in
the world."

The singing under the arbor had begun, and with a helpless, even
startled look in her eyes she moved automatically in that direction.

"I don't think you do, fully," she faltered. "I'm sure you don't. Men
never quite understand women in such delicate matters."

She left him; and, finding himself alone, he crossed the sward and sat
down in a group of farmers who were discussing crops and planting.





CHAPTER XXII




That evening after supper Saunders and Mostyn were on the veranda
smoking together. The exchange of remarks was formal, even forced and
awkward. Presently Saunders said: "I saw Leach looking for you at the
arbor. Did you run across him?"

"Yes," Mostyn puffed, and Saunders heard him heave a sigh. "I had
quite a talk with him. I can't fully account for it, but I like the
man very much. It may be his optimism or wonderful faith. I know that
he has a very soothing effect on me. The truth is, I have promised to
go to California with him."

"Oh!" Saunders leaned against the balustrade, steadily scrutinizing
the face of his guest. "He told me something about his proposition,
but I thought that perhaps you would not be likely to go--not now,
anyway."

"Oh yes, I shall go at once. I must go somewhere, and with him I'd
have the benefit of a companion."

"But, of course," Saunders flung out, tentatively, "you will not
remain away long?"

"I can't say for sure that I shall _ever_ come back," Mostyn said,
sadly. "Of course, I can't say positively as to that, but there
is nothing--absolutely nothing to hold me here now."

The eyes of the two met in a steady stare.

"You can't mean _that_--I'm sure you can't!" Saunders faltered.

Mostyn seemed about to speak, but a tremor of rising emotion checked
him. He smoked for a moment in silence; then, with a steadier voice,
he began:

"I must be more frank with you, Jarvis," he said. "You have been a
true friend to me, and I don't want to keep anything from you at all.
Besides, this concerns you directly. To tell you this I may be
betraying confidence, but even that, somehow, seems right. Saunders,
to-day at that meeting as I sat there--" Mostyn's voice began to shake
again, and he cleared his throat before going on. "As I sat there
looking at--at the purest, sweetest face God ever made I began to
_hope._ I confess it. I began to hope that God might intend to give me
one other chance at earthly happiness. I even fancied that He might
purposely have led me back here out of my awful darkness into light. I
might not have dared to go so far, but she had her uncle invite me to
lunch, and as I sat by her side the very benediction of Heaven seemed
to fall on her and me and all the rest. It made me bold. I was out of
my head. I was intoxicated by it all. Don't you see, I began to think,
late as it is--shamed as I am before the world--I began to think that
I might again take some sort of root among men and be worthy of--of
the only woman I ever really loved? She and I walked off together. Her
consenting to go gave me fresh courage. I determined to speak. I
determined to throw my soiled soul at her spotless feet. I did."

"Don't say any more; I know the rest," Saunders said, under his
breath. "I congratulate you. I congratulate you with all my heart." He
held out his hand, but Mostyn warded it off, his cigar cutting red
zigzag lines in the darkness.

"Congratulate me? My God, _you_ congratulate _me_. Are you blind? Have
you been blind all this time? She not only spurned my love, but in a
blaze of righteous indignation she told me she loved you. She said she
loved, adored, reverenced--_worshiped_ you. She seemed to look on my
hopes as some sort of insult to her womanhood. She didn't want _you_
to know of her love, she said, but she wanted _me_ to know it. She
seems to feel--she seems to think that in all your kindness to her and
nobleness you deserve a wife who has never fancied another, even in
girlhood. She told me that her feeling for me was only the idle whim
of a child, and that she pitied me as a weak and stumbling creature.
She put it that way, with blazing eyes, and she put it right. I _am_
weak--I've always been weak; and to-day, in trying to win her from
you, I did the weakest act of my life. I confess it. You have the
right to strike me in the face. I knew you loved her. I knew she had
become your very life, and yet in my despair and damnable vanity I
wanted to take her from you. I am trying to get right, but I fell
before that dazzling temptation. In telling you of her love now I am
tearing my soul from my body, but I want to atone--I want to atone--as
far as possible."

Saunders turned his transformed face away. He said nothing, and the
two stood in dead silence for a moment. Suddenly Saunders put out a
throbbing hand and laid it on Mostyn's shoulder.

"I thank you; I thank you," he said, huskily. "You must excuse me this
evening. I hope you can pass the time some way. I am going to her,
Mostyn. I can't wait another minute. I must see her to-night!"





CHAPTER XXIII

CONCLUSION




Six years passed. It was autumn in the mountains. The air was balmy
and crisp. The landscape was gloriously tinted by late wild flowers
and the colors of dying leaves. A far-off peak, catching the rays of
the afternoon sun, rose above the dun valley like a mound of delicate
coral dropped from the cloud-mottled blue overhead.

A stranger, walking from the station at Ridgeville, was nearing the
front gate of Saunders's home. He moved with a slow, thoughtful step.
He was gray, even to the whiteness of snow. His skin was clear and
pink, his eyes were bright and alert. As he opened the gate he became
aware of the nearness of two children playing in a vine-clad summer-
house on the right of the graveled walk. The older was a handsome boy
of four years; his companion was a pretty little girl of two, whom the
boy held by the hand quite with the air of manly guardianship.

"Now, see how you have soiled your dress," the boy said, brushing the
child's lap with his little hand. "Mama wouldn't like that."

The clicking of the gate-latch attracted the glance of the children;
and they stood staring curiously at the man who, with an introductory
smile, was drawing near. He bent down and shook hands with them both,
first with the little girl and lastly with the boy.

"I have come to see your papa and mama," he said. "Are they at home? I
think they are expecting me."

"They are down in the meadow getting flowers," the boy answered. "They
are coming right back. You can see them from here. Look, there by the
spring!"

The stranger followed the direction indicated by the little hand, and
his eyes took on a wistful stare as they fixed upon a couple strolling
across the meadow, holding flowers and ferns in their hands. They
walked quite close together, those two, and the distance seemed to
enfold them with conscious tenderness.

"They are both well, I believe?" the man said to the boy, as the more
timid little girl turned and toddled away.

"Yes, thank you," the boy answered, in words which sounded stilted in
one so young. "They got your letter. I heard papa say so. You are Mr.
Mostyn, a very old friend of theirs. They said I must love you and be
good while you are here, because you have no little boy yourself."

"Yes, yes, that's true," Mostyn answered,, taking the child's hand in
his. "Now you know my name, you must tell me yours."

"Richard," the child said. "I was named for your little boy that died
and went up to God. Papa used to love him long, long ago in Atlanta."

Mostyn drew the child along by the hand. The delicate throbbing of the
boy's pulse thrilled him through and through. Steps sounded in the
hall of the house, and John Webb, not any older in appearance than
when last seen, crossed the veranda and came slowly down the steps.

"Well, well, well!" he cried. "Here you are at last. It must be a
powerful long trip from Californy. The folks didn't seem to think
you'd git here till in the morning. They 'lowed you'd stop for a while
in Atlanta."

"I finished my visit there sooner than I expected." Mostyn shook the
thick damp hand warmly. "I've been living out in the open so much of
late years that Atlanta seemed stuffy and crowded; besides, my sister
has moved away, and I have no blood-kin there. I wanted to get into
the country as soon as I could, and this seems like home in a way."

"That's what Dolly and Jarvis are goin' to try to make it for you,"
Webb went on. "Lord, they have been countin' on this for a long time!
Seems like they don't talk of much else. I heard 'em say they was
goin' to try to break you of your rovin' habit. They've got your room
fixed up to a gnat's heel. It is the best one in the house--plenty of
air and light. That's what they are out pickin' flowers and evergreens
for now. They want it to look cheerful."

"It is very kind of them, I am sure," Mostyn answered, "but I wouldn't
like to be in the way very long."

"You won't be in nobody's way here," Webb declared. "If this ain't an
open house there never was one of the old-time sort before the war.
Jarvis runs the place like his pa and grandpa did. You never saw the
like o' visitors in summer-time. They pile in from all directions,
close an' far off. Every friend that comes anywhere nigh has to put up
here. Them two live happy, I tell you, if ever a pair did. They've got
'em a fine home in Atlanta, where they spend the winter, but they both
love this best. Jarvis is writin' a book about mountain flowers, an'
Dolly helps him. They travel about a lot; they take in New York nearly
every year, but love to get back home where they say they can be
comfortable."

"And the rest of the family?" Mostyn said. "Your sister and Drake, how
are they?" "Fine, first rate. Tom still bosses the plantation. Jarvis
tried to git 'im to quit when he married in the family--said he didn't
want his daddy-in-law drawin' pay by the month--but Tom had got
interested in the work and hung on. He's turned out to be an A1
manager, I tell you. He knows what's what in plantin', an' makes his
men move like clockwork from sun-up to sun-down."

"And George and his wife?" Mostyn inquired. "Are they doing well?"

"Fine, fine. Got four likely children--three boys and a girl baby that
gave 'er first yell just a month ago. That pair has struck a lively
lick hatchin' 'em out, but it is exactly what they like--they say they
want just as many crawlers under foot as they can step over without
stumblin'."

"And you, yourself--" Mostyn hesitated. "Have you--"

"Oh, me?" Webb's freckled face reddened. "Not on your life. I'll stay
like I am till I'm under ground. Not any of it for me. Other folks can
do as they like, but not me--no siree! I reckon you hain't never"--
Webb hesitated--"married a second time?"

"No," Mostyn answered. "I am still quite alone in the world."

Webb glanced toward the meadow. "I'll walk down there and let 'em know
you are here," he said. "They would dilly-dally like that till after
dark, an' then come home swingin' hands an' gigglin' an' sayin' fool
things to each other. They make me sick sometimes. I believe in love,
you understand--I think married folks ought to love each other, in the
bounds o' reason, but this mushy business--well, it ain't in my line,
that's all!"

He passed through the gate and started toward the meadow. Mostyn
leaned on the fence. He saw the couple again. They were standing face
to face arranging the flowers.

"I don't think I'd disturb them if I were you," he called after the
bachelor. "There is no hurry."

"Oh, they would want to know you are here," Webb answered over his
shoulder, as he strode away. "They will come in a trot when they know
about it."

Presently Mostyn felt a small hand creep into his. It was the little
boy.

"Do you see them?" the child inquired. "I can't look over the fence."

"Yes, let me hold you up." Mostyn lifted the boy in his arms. "Now,
now can you see?" he asked, the words sweeping from him in suddenly
released tenderness.

"Yes, yes; and they are coming. Let's go to meet them. Will you?"

"Yes, and you must let me carry you. You know I used to love to carry
my _own_ little boy like this--just like this."

The child's arm, already on Mostyn's shoulder, slid closer to his neck
till it quite encircled it. The soft, warm hand touched Mostyn's chin.

"Mama and papa said I must call you 'Uncle Dick," but you are not my
really, _really_ uncle, are you?"

"No, but I want to be. Will you--would you mind giving your old uncle
a hug with--with _both_ your arms?"

The boy complied.

"There, there!" Mostyn said. "Once more--tight--tight! Hug me tight!"

The child obeyed. "Oo-ooh!" he cried, as he relaxed his tense
pressure.

"Thank you--thank you!" Mostyn kissed him; then he was silent.

With one hand on Mostyn's cheek the boy leaned forward and peered into
his face curiously.

"Why--why," he faltered, his little lips puckered sympathetically,
"what is the matter?"

THE END

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