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 bed till you come home. I am not afraid.
I don't want to sleep in there with Hilda. I don't like her."
Till he came home! The words seemed to sink into and surge back from
the core of his accumulated remorse. Till he came home, perhaps near
dawn, reeking with the odor of licentiousness--the very licentiousness
he was praying that his child might not be drawn into.
He put his hand on the little brow. He bent and kissed it. He felt his
resistance falling away from him like the severed thongs of a prisoner.
A force was entering him which mere flesh could not combat. He slid his
hand under the child to raise him up, and felt the little body bound in
surprised delight toward him. He pressed the soft form to his breast.
He felt the keen pain of restrained emotion within him.
Taking the boy in his arms, he sat down in a rocking-chair, holding him
as a mother might an adored infant. "Do you want Daddy to rock you to
sleep?" he asked.
"Oh, will you, Daddy, will you?"
"Yes." Mostyn stroked the soft cool legs caressingly and pressed the
child's brow against his cheek. The boy was quiet for a moment; then
his father felt him stir uneasily.
"What is it now?" he inquired.
"When I get to sleep what are you going to do with me?"
Mostyn thought rapidly. "I'll put you in my bed," he said, slowly. Then
he added, with firmness: "I'll go down to the library and read the
papers, and then I'll come back and sleep with you. I shall not go away
to-night."
The child said nothing. He simply put both his arms about his father's
neck, kissed him on the cheek, and cuddled up in his arms.