Old Mr. Wiley

Old Mr. Wiley, by Fanny Greye
La Spina

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Title: Old Mr. Wiley
Author: Fanny Greye La Spina

Release Date: November 6, 2007 [eBook #23379]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
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Transcriber note:
This etext was produced from Weird Tales, March, 1951. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.

OLD MR. WILEY
by
GREYE LA SPINA

[Illustration: Old Mr. Wiley and the dog came over every night ... but
were they real?]
"He just lies here tossing and moaning until he's so weak that he sinks
into a kind of coma," said the boy's father huskily. "There doesn't seem
anything particular the matter with him now but weakness. Only," he
choked, "that he doesn't care much about getting well."
Miss Beaver kept her eyes on that thin little body outlined by the fine
linen sheet. She caught her breath and bit her lower lip to check its
trembling. So pitiful, that small scion of a long line of highly placed
aristocratic and wealthy forebears, that her cool, capable hand went out
involuntarily to soothe the fevered childish brow. She wanted suddenly
to gather the little body into her warm arms, against her kind breast.
Her emotion, she realized, was far from professional; Frank Wiley IV
had somehow laid a finger on her heartstrings.
"If you can rouse him from this lethargy and help him find some

interest in living," Frank Wiley III said thickly, "you won't find me
unappreciative, Miss Beaver."
The nurse contemplated that small, apathetic patient in silence. Doctor
Parris had warned her that unless the boy's interest could somehow be
stimulated, the little fellow would die from sheer lack of incentive to
live. Her emotion moistened her eyes and constricted her throat
muscles. She had to clear her throat before she could speak.
"I can only promise to do my very best for this dear little boy," she said
hurriedly. "No human being can do more than his best."
"Doctor Parris tells me you have been uniformly successful with the
cases he's put you on. I hope," the young father entreated, "that you'll
follow your usual precedent."
"The doctor is too kind," murmured Miss Beaver with slightly lifted
brows. "I fear he gives me more credit than I deserve."
"There I hope you're wrong. He calls you an intuitive psychic. It is
upon your intuitions that I'm banking now. My affection hampers me
from fathoming Frank's inner-most thoughts. If I were really sure what
he needed most, I'd get it for him if it were a spotted giraffe," declared
his father passionately. "But I'm unable to go deeply enough into his
real thoughts."
"If his own father cannot think of something he would care for enough
to make him want to live, how can an outsider find out what he might
be wanting?" argued the nurse, a touch of resentment in her voice.
"Would not his own mother know what would make him want to take
hold on life?"
There was an awkward pause.
"His mother," began Frank Wiley III and was interrupted by a light tap
on the door panel, at which he went silent, turning away as if relieved
to escape any explanation.

The door swung open, permitting the entrance of a young and very
pretty woman, one who knew exactly what a charming picture she
made in jade negligee over peach pajamas. About her exceedingly
well-shaped head ash-blonde hair lay in close artificial waves. She was
such a distinctively blonde type that Miss Beaver could not control her
slightly startled downward glance at the dark child tossing on the bed.
Her upward look of bewilderment was met by Frank Wiley's faint
smile.
"He takes after the founder of our family," said he in a low, almost
confidential voice. "His great-grandfather was said to have had Indian
blood in his veins, as well as a touch of old Spain. The boy doesn't look
like his mother or me. He's a real throw-back."
The pretty woman had come across the room, pettishly lifting her silk
clad shoulders. Through the straps of embroidered sandals red-tipped
toes wriggled. At the tumbled bed and