Old Mr. Wiley | Page 4

stroked the fevered brow with tenderness. On his face a dark look brooded. His eyes were absent, unhappy.
"Daddy, why couldn't I have just a little puppy of my own?"
The father replied with obvious effort.
"You know, Frankie, we have one small dog already," said he with forced lightness.
"Oh! Kiki!"
"Couldn't you manage to make friends with Kiki?"
"She doesn't really want Kiki to like me, Daddy." (Wise beyond his years, marvelled Miss Beaver.) "Kiki doesn't really like little boys."
"Oh, my God, Frankie, don't go to crying again! Don't you see that Daddy can't quarrel with Mother over a dog? Try to get well, old man, and we'll see then what we can do. How about a pony, son?"
The little boy disappeared under the sheet, refusing to reply. Miss Beaver could not bear his convulsive, hardly-controlled sobs, and turned an accusing face upon Frank Wiley III.
"Is it possible," she asked icily, "that Frank's mother would actually refuse him so small a thing as a puppy, if it meant the merest chance of his getting better?"
The face turned to hers was gloomy, the voice impatient.
"Oh, good God! Was ever a man in such a damnable situation? My dear Miss Beaver, ask the doctor to tell you how much influence I have in this household, before you blame me for not taking a firm stand with a woman as nervous and temperamental as Mrs. Wiley. I'd give my life willingly to bring my boy back to health but unhappily I'm not like the founders of our family. Some day I'll show you our family album. You'll find it easy to trace the strong resemblance Frankie has to his forebears. Its the damnably high spirit he gets from them that is so stubbornly killing him now."
* * * * *
He rose, wheeled about and went to the door. Paused. Still with that brooding dark look on his face he turned to her again.
"If my death would make it any easier for Frank, I wouldn't hesitate a moment. I'm a failure. It wouldn't matter. But I feel that by living and watching over him I'm standing between my boy's development as an individual, and the subtlest, softest peril that could possibly threaten him. I would rather he died, if he cannot bring about what he wills for his own development. As for me, I ... I am a dead man walking futilely among the living."
With that, he swung out of the room.
Miss Beaver knelt by the boy's bed, murmuring persuasively to him as she strove to make him check his hysterical sobs.
"Frankie, you really must stop crying. You're too big a chap to cry and it only makes you worse. If you're a good boy to-day and eat your food, I'll let your grandfather bring the little dog tonight," she promised rashly.
The sheet turned down and Frank's reddened face peered at her plaintively.
"That was my great-grandfather," he assured her gravely.
"Well, great or great-great, it's all the same," she conceded good-humoredly.
"Do you really think he'll bring Spot tonight?"
"Of course he will. But you must eat your meals, take a long nap, and stop crying."
"Oh, I promise!" the boy cried eagerly.
The day, Miss Beaver was told later, was uneventful. She had remained with the day nurse until Doctor Parris had made his visit. The doctor had been much pleased to find his small patient in good spirits and congratulated himself upon having put Miss Beaver on the case.
"If our young friend continues to improve like this, Miss Beaver," he joked, "we'll have him playing football within a month." He lowered his voice for her ear only. "Has anything particular come under your notice that might account for this agreeable change?"
Miss Beaver's forehead wrinkled slightly. She regarded the doctor from narrowed, thoughtful eyes.
"Tell me, Doctor Parris, if it isn't asking too much, why Mr. Wiley is a Man-Afraid-of-his-Wife?"
The doctor could not repress an involuntary chuckle.
"Come now, nurse, don't you think you're asking rather a good deal?"
"No, I don't," retorted Miss Beaver shortly. "Nor do you think so, either. What I'm trying to get at is, why Mr. Wiley lets Mrs. Wiley prevent him from giving Frank a puppy that he wants?"
The doctor regarded her thoughtfully.
"So it's a pup the boy wants. Ha, hum!" he uttered.
"I'm asking you," she repeated impatiently.
"Oh! Eh! Well! Mrs. Wiley, you have undoubtedly discerned, is one of those self-centered egotists who simply cannot permit people to live any way but her way. She won't have another dog in the house because it might interfere with the comfort of that silly damn--excuse me--Pom of hers. If Frank were a bit older and could feign a penchant for the Pom and his mother got the idea that the animal's affection might be alienated from her, she would at once get the child another dog, just to keep him away