"I do," confessed the child, friendly. "But Woberts doesn't. Do you,Woberts?" Without waiting for the corroboration of the somewhat perturbedRoberts, she turned again to Blake. "I like heaps and heaps of sugar….Woberts gives it to me when there isn't anyone looking, don't you,Woberts?" And then, very seriously, she added, "I like Woberts"
Blake laughed, a low, rumbling, ringing laugh.
"I don't blame you," he said. "I used to have sugar once…. I liked those who gave it to me."
He picked her up and set her again in the high-chair, moving it close to the table with its dainty china and center-piece of pink carnations.
The child looked up at him, half wondering. She was pretty—very pretty— with serious, round violet eyes, sun-kissed cheeks, and hair of the soft brown that is of kin to gold.
"Don't you get any sugar now?" she asked, very seriously.
He shook his head.
"Not any?" she persisted. "Never?"
"Not any," he replied, gravely. "Never."
Swiftly she picked up the little silver sugar jar; she cast an investigative eye up at the solemn visage of the butler.
"Mr. Tom can have some of ours, can't he, Woberts?" she inquired, gravely tendering the bowl to Blake, who accepted it just as gravely.
"I thank you," he said, very seriously. "It is kind of you…. But, do you know, I was speaking rather of figurative sugar."
The child shook her head, perplexedly.
"I don't think we have that kind," she ventured. "We have powdered sugar, and loaf sugar, and gran—granulated," she syllablized it, calling it "gran-u-lat-ed"—"and we have pulverized sugar, too. But I don't believe we have fig—the kind you said…. I'm sorry."
He smiled a little—a smile of the lips.
"It doesn't matter," he said, slowly. "Really it doesn't. You know I haven't had any for so long that I've quite forgotten the taste of it…. Where's daddy this morning?"
"Daddy and mother dear are saying goodbye to Auntie," the child replied, making in the oatmeal before her a miniature Panama Canal and watching the thick cream trickle slowly from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
Blake turned to the butler.
"How is Mrs. VanVorst this morning, Roberts?" he asked. "Still very ill, sir," returned the butler. "Very ill indeed."
"Not dangerously?"
"We 'opes not, sir. But she's still very low, sir."
Blake turned one fist in the palm of the other hand.
"Why, I though from the wireless that Mr. Schuyler sent me that she was getting along splendidly. I—"
He stopped, abruptly. There had entered the breakfast room the wife of John Schuyler. She saw Blake and came forward, hand outstretched, welcome in her eyes. She had come to be very like her child—her child and Schuyler's—had the daughter of Jimmy Blair—she was like her child grown up, glorified into womanhood. Her hair was the same gold-brown, a little unruly, clinging against her temples, nestling at neck-nape. Her eyes were the same deep violet—perhaps a little darker—a little softer—a little less wondering; for years bring knowledge, and when one begins to know, then one must cease, somewhat, to wonder. She had the soft, brown, sun-kissed cheeks of her child, too, rounded and smooth, with the red blood tinting them to a delicate pink. She had the finely-modelled, cleanly-cut nose, and the expressive, sensitive mouth with its red lips, and white teeth. And her chin was both beautiful and firm.
She moved lithely across the room to where Blake stood. He took her hand.
"Tom," she began, cordially. Her voice was low and deep, and very soft. "We're so glad to see you…. You got Jack's message, then? We were afraid you wouldn't."
Blake nodded.
"Caught it off Point Judith," he replied. "You should have seen us 'bout ship and come spattering down the Sound. Those blockade-running persons could have gained points from us We burned the bulwarks, the cargo and most of my cigars. It looks as though we did so wisely, too; for we haven't much time to spare, have we?"
"We leave in half an hour," she returned. "Sit down, Tom…. Jack will be here soon."
"But what's it all about?" he asked. He sank into a chair, elbows on knees, fingers clasped.
"Jack's trip abroad?"
He nodded.
"It's something at the Court of St. James. I don't know exactly; but it's very imposing, and important, and epoch-making. Jack spent all day yesterday with the President and Secretary of State."
"Well, well, well! That certainly is immense!" She was standing beside the table. Slowly her fingers plucked a carnation from the cluster before her. Violet eyes were upon it.
"Is it?" she asked, slowly.
"Isn't it?" he queried, surprised.
She paused a moment; and then, swiftly:
"Oh, I don't know. I—"
Blake waited. But she did not go on. At length he spoke:
"How long will he be gone?"
"Maybe two months," she returned…. "It will be the first time that we've been apart for more than a day or two since we were married…. I— I suppose that's silly, isn't it?
"If that's silly, it's too bad anyone ever gets sensible," was his assuring reply.
She had risen. Slowly she went around behind the little high chair. Leaning lithely over, she laid her cheek against that of her child, soft, rounded arms pressing her close. And then she looked at Blake, eyes to eyes.
"I don't like it, Tom," she said, very slowly.
"But," he protested, "it's a big honor—a great honor—an appointment like this, from the President."
"Yes," she answered, thoughtfully. "It is a big honor. And I suppose that I should be very, very happy—Of course, in a way, I am." Then, suddenly: "But I'm not. I don't like it, Tom. I try to like it. I tell myself that I ought to like it. And yet I can't. Happiness is more than honors; and we are happy here—as happy as it is possible for two people" her eyes, laden of the mother love, fell upon the child that was hers, "for three people," she corrected, "to be. We have everything we need—everything we ought to want. I'd rather have just peace, and quiet and contentment, than all the honors there are."
"And yet—"
"I mustn't stand in the way of his advancement, you mean. I know that; and I haven't…. You know he left it all to me; and I said, 'Go.' It hurt, too, Tom…. I didn't want that he should go. I don't know why…. I—" she stopped. The child had finished her oatmeal. Lithely, the mother, stooping, lifted her from the chair, held her close for a tiny minute and then, kissing her, set her down upon the floor.
"Run along, dearie," she directed. "Tell Mawkins to get you dressed."
She watched the graceful, pretty child until she vanished through the door. Slowly she walked to the window. Hands clasped behind her she stood, gazing across the sunlit lawn—across the dancing, flashing waters of the Sound. A big, black schooner, a mountain of bellying whiteness superimposed upon a tiny streak of hull, was standing off for the Long Island shore. Her eyes followed it.
Blake, lids half closed, as a man who seeks within the denseness of masculine brain for something that lieth not therein, considered for a long moment, eyes upon the perfect figure of perfect womanhood before him. At length he spoke.
"It doesn't seem to me," he began, "that it means either very much or very little." He went on, more lightly: "Two months isn't such a long time, you know, after all. He'll soon be back, laden with honors. And then, because he was raised on the seacoast and doesn't know the difference between a Lima bean and a bole weevil, they'll probably make him Secretary of Agriculture."
She was still gazing at the vanishing sail; she had not heard his words.
He leaned back in his chair, a little, watching her. At length he sighed, and murmured to himself:
"To him that hath, shall be given all they can take away from him that hathn't."
[Illustration]
John Schuyler had come to be a big man and a broad one—big in the great things of life that sometimes are so small, big in the small things of life that sometimes are so great. Broad of mind, as well as broad of shoulder he was. Forty years of age now, his hair, by the habit of thought, was tinged with gray at the temples; yet skin and complexion were as those of a boy. Quick in movement, agile, alert, thrilling with vitality and virility, his pleasures were, as they had always been, the pleasures of the great out-of-doors. A yachtsman, his big yawl, the "Manana," was known in every club port from Gravesend to Bar Harbor. He motored. He rode. He played tennis, and golf, and squash, and racquets. He was an expert swimmer, a skilful fencer, a clever boxer. And, more wonderful than the combination of these things was the fact that he found time away from his work to do them all, and to enjoy them with the youthful, contagious, effervescent enthusiasm of a man of half his age.
It showed in his well-set-up, well-poised body. It showed in the expression of his clear-cut bronzed features. It showed in every little shift of pose, every little turn of his well-shaped head, as he stood, leaning gracefully against the ledge of the bay window, talking with Blake; for Mrs. Schuyler and Muriel had gone to make ready for the trip to the city, and to the dock.
"I don't like to leave it, Tom," he said slowly, his eyes roaming over the bright, little room. "I don't like to leave it even to hobnob with crowned heads, and to take tea with dukes, earls, princes and kings, to say nothing of mere lords. My world is right here; and it's all the world I want, Tom. It's bounded on the south by the sound, on the north by the property of the municipality, on the east and west by somebody else's worlds, and above by eternity." Blake lighted a cigar.
"Then what are you going for?" he asked, practically.
Schuyler shrugged his shoulders.
"I wonder," he replied.
"Want me to tell you?" queried the other.
"I should be obliged," he said with a smile.
"Well," began Blake, placing finger ends to finger ends, judicially. "In the first place, you're ambitious. You like the plaudits of the populace. You see here a chance to get about a million per cent on your investment. Whereby you stick two months time and a little effort into the proposition and draw down a position that means sitting beside the chief executive and trying to look as though you knew what he was talking about. Also a chance to live in Washington and cut figure eights in the diplomatic circles. All of which is perfectly natural, nothing at all to your discredit, and furthermore shows whence come the few good men, who, sticking their heels in, are trying to keep the country from going to the demnition bow-wows. Am I right?"
Schuyler watched a little ring of blue smoke rising to the ceiling.
"No," he answered, slowly, "you're wrong. I care nothing for the plaudits of the populace. I'm ambitious, in a way; but when that way requires me to leave the people—the things—that I love, then ambition chameleonizes and I become ambitious antithetically. Furthermore, I loathe the climate of Washington; and all the society I want, I can find right in my home— with the exception of yourself."
"Which is not so much of an exception, after all," commented Blake; "because, when it comes to sticking around, I'm the original young Mr. Glue."
"You know, Tom," went on Schuyler, "I don't like to take any chances with a happiness such as mine…. I wonder, sometimes, if I really know how happy I am. One can get used to happiness, you know, just as to other things—except unhappiness."
"Hum," snorted Blake. "I've got used to that, even. Dad—burn it all, nothing ever goes right with me—except money; and that's no good without the rest. Money is merely an agreeable accessory. To have money and nothing with it is like having an olive and no cocktail to put it in. If I eat what I like, I get sick. I'm always either forty pounds too heavy or twenty pounds too light. I'm continually dieting or training and wondering why in Sam Hill I'm doing either. I have to live alone—to spend my evening at theatres or clubs—I am a man who would willingly give up all his clubs for one large pair of pink carpet slippers, and the theatres for a corpulent, aristocratic Maltese cat, with a baritone purr."
Schuyler, immersed in his own thoughts, had not been listening.
Blake eyed him, whimsically.
"Ain't I the gabby thing, though?" he remarked, at length. And then:
"A couple of million dollars for your thoughts, sweet chuck."
"I was thinking how near I came to turning this all down—and how I'm sort of sorry that I didn't."
"Nell's better, isn't she?" queried Blake, suddenly.
"Better, yes; but not out of danger. Why?"
"Why," returned Blake, "it just occurred to me—see here, old man, I've nothing much to do. Can't I stick around here? And then you can take Kate and Muriel with you."
"That's good of you, Tom," said Schuyler, smiling a little. "But a bachelor around a sick room is of about as much use as an elephant at a pink tea…. No, Kate and I have talked it all over, and, under the conditions, she has decided to stay at home. It'll be mighty hard, though—mighty hard…. It must be nearly time to leave."
Blake looked at his watch.
"Nine fifty," he said. "What time does the train go?"
Schuyler did not answer; for just then there entered the room a tall, clean-cut young fellow of thirty, dressed with quiet immaculacy. It was Parks, John Schuyler's secretary.
To him Schuyler turned.
"Is everything ready, Parks?" he asked.
"Everything," was the reply. "And the car is waiting."
"Mrs. Schuyler?"
"Is in the hall."
"You have the documents that we selected?"
"Here, sir." Parks touched with the fingers of his right hand the little satchel of black seal that he carried beneath his left arm.
"How much time have we?"
"We should leave within a very few minutes now."
"Very well. We'll be right there."
As Parks left the room, Blake turned to his friend.
"Jack," he exclaimed, "it makes me sore every time I look at you. Why in thunder can't I get in once in a while? Nothing would suit me better than to go over and buy the king a glass of half and half and mix around with the diplomats and settle the affairs of nations. But they wouldn't let me send cucumber seeds to the mattress-faced constituency of Skaneateles county if I should offer to pay for the job. I've got everything I don't want—except the measles—and everything I do want, I can't get. I want a home. What have I? A box stall with nobody in it but a man to curry me; and he's curried me so often that he's lost all respect for me. I want to stop being merely ornamental and become useful; but when I say so, everyone hands me the jocose and jibing jeer and proceeds to lock up anything that seems to have any relation whatsoever to industry, commerce, or utility of any kind. And the best I can get is the festive roof garden, the broad speed-way, and the bounding wave. I wish I were running this universe. I ain't mentioning no names, but there's a certain svelte party on my left, whose initials are J. S., who wouldn't have a monopoly on all the good things in this world."
Schuyler, filling his cigar case from a silver humidor on the sideboard, laughed.
"There's nothing the matter with you, Tom," he said, assuringly, "except that you have too much time and too much money. Stop your kicking."
Blake grinned.
"Let me rave if I want to," he requested. "Let me have a good time. You know as well as I do that I don't mean it, and you know that I'm more glad for your success and happiness and prosperity than I would be for my own; and that's being some glad." He crossed to where Schuyler stood and placed his arm about his shoulders, and continued, "good old Jack. Bully for you. You deserve everything that you have ever won. I'd say I loved you like a brother if it weren't for the fact that I never had a brother yet that I could sit through a meal with without wanting to hit him under the ear with the side-board."
[Illustration: "BYE, LITTLE SWEETHEART"]
The room had become suddenly dark. Came almost without the warning of preliminary rumble—almost without the precursor of sullen flashing—a great peal of heavy thunder. Schuyler turned. Blake sprang to his feet.
Through the bow window, the lawn lay dun and dark. Beyond, the Sound, flat and heavy, seemed as gray oil. The Long Island shore had been swallowed in the gloom. Above all was a great, black cloud, rimmed of silver and of gold, a low cloud, thick and threatening. And yet to one side and the other—in fact save right in its ominous path, one could see the sunlight on water and on land. Then came the rain, and the wind, and with them incessant flashings, incessant bellowings, wild protests of the outraged God of storms. Trees bent and groaned. Flowers, torn from their tender stalks, lay prostrate in puling puddles. And quick-born waves lashed themselves spitefully against the pier and breakwater down beyond the lawn, unseen in the swirling, screaming wildness of it all.
Upon one another Schuyler and Blake turned wondering, amazed eyes. In its suddenness, the storm was unbelievable. They stood, side by side, gazing out into the storm.
Suddenly, into the hand of Schuyler stole tiny, frightened fingers. It was Muriel.
"I'm frightened, daddy dear," she cried.
Schuyler gathered her into his arms.
"Don't be frightened, little sweetheart," he said, soothingly. "It's just a summer storm…. Where's mother?"
"Here, Jack." Her voice came from at his very side. "Isn't it terrible!We can't go in this."
Holding his child close against his breast, her cheeks against his, her gold-brown hair mixing with the gray of his temples, he said:
"Not you and Muriel, of course. But I must. It won't last long; you and Tom can come on a later train. Parks can come with you. There'll be plenty of time. It's only that I have urgent business that I must attend to before sailing."
In a swirl of wind and rain, Parks stepped into the room, and addressingSchuyler, said:
"We should be starting, sir."
Schuyler nodded. The butler was holding his coat in readiness. He thrust his arms within the sleeves and, with a shrug of broad shoulders, stood prepared for departure.
Lifting the little girl that was his own, and of the woman he loved, he held her for a brief moment tight to his breast. In her little ear he whispered:
"Bye, little sweetheart."
She clung to him, little hands about his neck…. He set her down again upon the floor. She ran to Blake, waiting.
The deep lids of Kathryn were half veiling the violet eyes—eyes moist, and very soft. There was a little tremor of the sensitive lips. Schuyler drew her to him, so that she faced him, and whispered:
"Au revoir, big sweetheart…. Don't you dare to cry…. I know how it hurts; but be a brave little woman…. I'll make my stay just as short as possible."
"You'll cable?" she asked, tremulously.
"Cable?" he repeated. "I'll keep that wireless snapping all the way across…. Now let me see you smile."
She tried. It was a wan, sad little smile—a smile that was close of kin to a tear. She clung to him for a moment; then her fingers loosened their hold; she stepped back, white teeth holding nether lip. It was bitterly hard.
He looked; and with more understanding than many a man might have, turned swiftly.
Parks stepped forward.
"Shan't I go with you?" he asked.
Schuyler shook his head.
"No," he returned. "Come with Mrs. Schuyler—meet me at the boat. I'm going alone."
He thrust open the door. Came a wail of wind, a swirl of rain; and then, as he crossed the threshold, the very heaven itself seemed to be reft apart with a great, wild flash of lightning—the roar of the thunder was appalling.
Schuyler started back. He forced a laugh.
"Were I a superstitious man," he remarked, "I might take that for an omen."
And then he was gone.
[Illustration]
He came slinking down the deck of the liner, furtive of eye, uneven of tread. A young man he was—and yet old; for while his body told of youth, his face bespoke age—the unnatural forced age—the hot-housed growth of they who live in the froth of life—in the froth that it is hard to tell from the scum.
He was tall, and well-set-up. His clothes hung well about his body; they were of fine texture and make, yet unpressed, uncared for. He had been handsome; but he was no longer; for the eyes looked forth from hollows in his face. His cheeks were sunken. His lips were leaden. He was unshaven, ungroomed, unkempt.
Looking nervously, this way and that, he made his way among the jostling throngs to one of the passages. Searching with sunken eyes for a numbered door, he knocked upon it with the knuckles of his left hand; his right rested at his side, covered with a handkerchief of white silk…. He knocked; and stepped back, quickly. There was no answer; the door remained shut. He stepped forward again, thrusting the door wide open. The stateroom was empty. He turned. Out upon the deck he strode; then, starting back, he concealed himself in the passageway that he had just left.
Coming down the deck was a woman, a woman darkly beautiful, tall, lithe, sinuous. Great masses of dead black hair were coiled about her head. Her cheeks were white; her lips very red. Eyes heavy lidded looked out in cold, inscrutable hauteur upon the confusion about her. She wore a gown that clung to her perfectly-modelled figure—that seemed almost a part of her being. She carried, in her left arm, a great cluster of crimson roses.
Down the deck she came, slowly, as a queen going to her throne. She turned….
The man hiding in the passageway confronted her. His eyes were burning as of a fever; his whole body shook…. She remained calm, cold, unmoved.
At length, the woman spoke, half smiling:
"You? … I thought that we were through."
His voice was tense, strained, unnaturally pitched. The words came between clenched teeth.
"You did, eh? You thought you'd throw me over, as you did Rogers, and VanDam, and the rest of them…. But it won't work—you Vampire!"
Swiftly, he tore from his right hand, the handkerchief that covered it. There was in it a revolver. The bright mouth of the weapon sprang to the white forehead of The Woman.
Yet she did not start—she made no sound, no movement. The smile still dwelt upon her lips. It was only in the eyes that a difference came—in the black, inscrutable eyes. They gleamed now, heavy-lidded as before. Their gaze was fixed straight into the sunken, hate-lit eyes of the man before her, a man who, but for her, might still have been a boy. She bent forward a little…. Her forehead, between the eyes, was now touching the bright muzzle of the weapon. The finger on the trigger trembled— trembled but did not pull.
Came slowly, sibillantly, from between the smiling red lips:
"Kiss me, My Fool!"
Her eyes still fixed him…. The hand holding the revolver trembled more violently. Slowly the mouth of the weapon sank to lips—to chin—to breast…. It hovered there a moment, just over the heart—the finger twitched a little—twitched but did not pull. It was a finger governed by a vanished will in a shrivelled brain.
Then, suddenly, the revolver leaped—the finger pulled. With a shrill screech of hopeless, hideous imprecation, a shriek that died still-born, the bullet pierced flesh and bone and brain; and that which had been a man that should have been a boy, lurched drunkenly and lay a crumpled nothing upon the deck. There was blood upon the deck—beside the hem of the crimson gown, near to the crimson heel of her shoe. And the gown was caught beneath the body of the boy that was.
She looked down upon him. The smile not even yet had left her lips. With a lithe movement, infinitely graceful, she drew away, disengaging the hem of her crimson garment…. A crimson petal from the great cluster in her arms fell upon it, to lie upon the hollow whiteness of the upturned cheek…. And that was all.
A man—a man that should have been a boy—was gone…. Hurrying, horror- ridden passengers found him there, alone. The doctor came, and stewards, and the captain. They lifted him, and bore him away. Of those who live in the froth of things—the froth that is often the scum—there were several. One of these knew him.
"It's Young Parmalee," he informed them.
And that was all he knew; that, and possibly some other things that are little. But of the great things, he knew nothing. For of these great things, God has told us but little.
[Illustration]
The storm that had come hissing across the Sound did not last long. Its very fierceness, it seemed, was its own undoing. Its frenzy soon passed. And anon the sun shone; the drooping flowers raised to it pitiful, bedraggled little faces; and from the fields, rose the burden of incense, moist, fragrant giving wet thanks of its coming and of its going.
Schuyler's farewells had been but tentative. It had been understood that, should the storm abate, Mrs. Schuyler, Muriel and Blake would follow on the next train; for he himself was forced by the exigency of his mission to reach the city at least two hours before sailing time.
The car, returning from the trip to the depot, was again called into service. Parks, as well, had waited, and went with them.
Reaching the city, Blake's machine, for which he had telephoned from Larchmont, was waiting; and in this they made the journey through the traffic-thronged New York streets, to the dock; a route that leads one from wealth to poverty, from respectability to license, from well—doing to ill-doing, and through all that lies between.
The dock, beside which lay tugging at her cables the huge liner, was confusion thrice confused. Jolting cabs, rattling taxis, smooth-running private cars, drays and vans, added to the tumult caused by the hundred— the thousands—of hurrying, scurrying humanity. Came the calls of excited passengers, the rumbling of trucks, the Babel-like voices of emigrants; and, beyond, the noises of the Great River.
Alighting from the car at the gangway, they boarded the ship, with itscrowded decks. Schuyler's stateroom was aft, in the center of the ship.It lay the first door to the right, as one enters the narrow passageway.To it the little party made its way.
The door of the room opposite was ajar. Blake noticed that there lay therein a great mass of crimson roses; scattered amid the toilet articles and accessories of a woman. Passing through the crowds of the deck, he had heard, also, The Man Who Knew telling another man, who did not know of Young Parmalee. It had been but a word. But it had been a word that had found fructification and meaning in the sight of a deck steward, with a bucket, mopping up something from the deck, just outside the little passageway.
Kathryn and Muriel, seen safely to the room that Schuyler was to occupy, Blake returned and made his way out upon the deck. He stood for a moment by the steward, watching him.
Then very quietly inquired:
"Where did it happen, Steward?"
The steward, wringing out the mop into the dark water of his bucket, looked up. There were beads of sweat upon his bronzed, wrinkled brow. Yet the day was not warm.
"Wot, sir?" he queried.
"Where did it happen?"
"Wot happen sir?"
"Young Parmalee's suicide." Blake spoke quietly, calmly.
The steward's eyes shifted.
"Suicide, sir?" he said. "Don't know nothink about it, gov'ner."
Blake pointed to the spot upon the deck.
"What's that, then?" he demanded.
The steward moved, uneasily.
"A spot I just be'n a-cleanin' of, gov'ner."
Blake pointed to the bucket.
"And that?" he persisted.
"Water, sir."
"And—?"
The steward slowly drew the back of his hand across dry lips. And then, in a swift rush of strangled words:
"Blood, gov'ner. Blood…. Only a boy he was, sir, and she looked down on him, laying there with his brains spattered on the deck and she laughed, sir…. God, sir! She laughed…." He struggled to his feet and pulled his forelock. He said in altered tones: "Beg pardon, sir. But a man can't be a blime machine all the time, sir."
There came a call from the state-room.
"Get that bucket away from here. Quick!" And Blake turned to meet the wife and child of his friend, as they came from the state-room.
"Oh, I do hope Jack won't be late," Kathryn remarked, scanning the decks.
Blake standing between her and the steward, returned with forced lightness:
"Oh, he has plenty of time. Half an hour at least. Why, once I lost fifty thousand in the market, broke my steering gear running over a fat policeman, was arrested, taken to court and bailed out and all within twenty minutes. Jack's got time to squander."
There was sadness in the violet eyes.
"It will be very lonely when he's gone—very lonely," she mused, slowly.
"Well, it will be as lonely for him as it will for you," Blake returned; "which is a doubtful consolation, but one that most women don't have."
Muriel had wandered to the rail.
"Oh, I see him!" she cried, suddenly. "There he is! Daddy! Daddy, dear! … He's right there on the gangway—right behind that fat lady— the one with the red nose. I'm going to meet him."
Sturdy little legs started to follow the summons of impulsive little brain. But her mother detained her.
"No, dearie," she objected. "You'll get lost He'll be here in a moment, now."
"Not unless he can get by that lady," protested the child. "He's—he's—"
"Pocketed is the word you want, Muriel," assisted Blake. He was looking in the direction which the child had indicated. Suddenly, he exclaimed:
"I see him now. He doesn't see us, though. Possibly he doesn't know where his stateroom is. These boats are very confusing. I'll go fetch him."
Blake disappeared in the throngs upon the deck. Muriel turned to her mother.
"Mother," she implored.
"Yes, dear?"
"Why can't we go, too, mother dear?"
"We must stay to care for Aunt Elinor."
"But she has a doctor and two nurses now," protested the child.
"But," returned her mother, smiling, "that isn't like one's own family."
The child was for a moment sunk deep in thought most serious.
"But why must both of us stay?" she asked, at length. Then, suddenly:
"Mother, dear!"
"Yes little sweetheart?"
"I'll match you to see which one of us goes!"
Mrs. Schuyler, surprised, smiled.
"Why, daughter! Wherever did you learn that?"
"I heard Mr. Tom and daddy the other night. They were sitting in the library, and Mr. Tom said, 'I'll match you to see who gets the cigars.' So, mother dear, I thought that you and I might match one another to see which of us could go with daddy."
Kathryn placed an arm about her, drawing her to her.
"Do you want to go with daddy—and leave mother?" she asked.
The child shook her head, doubtfully.
"No," she said, "not exactly…. I want to go with daddy. I love daddy. But I want to stay with you, too, mother dear…. Mother dear," she added suddenly.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Wouldn't it be nice if we were both twins! Then half of us could go with daddy, and the other half of us stay at home with Aunt Elinor."
[Illustration]
Schuyler came hurrying down the deck, Blake and Parks close behind. There was on his face the smile of great gladness. He placed one strong arm about his wife, the other about his child.
"I've some bully news for you, Kate, dear! The President has so arranged that I can complete my work and get back to you in less than a month. Isn't that splendid? Just one little month and I'll be back again with you and baby."
The child raised her head in protest.
"But I'm not a baby, now. I'm six years old. Mother has to pay full fare for me on the cars. Don't you, mother?"
Schuyler picked her up from the deck, tossing her in the air.
"No matter what you may be to conductors, you'll always be baby to daddy, you little darling," he said, brightly. Then, turning to Blake, with lightness born of great earnestness:
"Take good care of them while I'm gone, won't you, old man. By Jove, I'd like to chuck it all, even at the last minute as it is, and stay at home—"
Facing his wife, child and friend, his eyes were up the broad deck. Came toward him The Woman—The Woman known of The Man Who Knew, and of Young Parmalee. Schuyler's voice died in his throat. Her eyes were upon him. His eyes were upon her. She made no movement. She paused not in her indolent, sinuous walk. Her eyes were upon him; and that was all—dark eyes, glowing, inscrutable, beautiful with the beauty that was hers. And his eyes were on hers…. She turned up the narrow passageway in which lay Schuyler's stateroom…. Blake saw, too. He was not of those who live in the froth of things—that froth of things that is the scum. But he was of the world; and they who are of the world have knowledge of all that that world contains—of all, that is, that it is for such as they to know.
Kathryn looked up, at length, anxiously. Schuyler was never abstracted.She prompted:
"You were saying, Jack, dear—"
Schuyler drew his hand, palm out, across his forehead.
"Why—oh, yes," he floundered, trying to marshal his scattered thoughts."I was saying—" He appealed to Blake, half-helplessly, half-whimsically."By Jove, that's strange. What was I saying, Tom?"
Blake replied, shortly:
"You were asking me to take good care of them."
Schuyler nodded.
"Oh, yes," he assented. And then; "I don't understand. I—but you will take good care of them, won't you, old man? They're all I have; and more, they're all I want. Guard them, Tom, for me as though they were your own."
* * * * *
Waiting to take farewell of those one loves is indeed a sweetness tinged with bitterness. And if one loves very, very much, it is sometimes a bitterness tinged with sweetness. Kathryn, lower lip clenched between white teeth, herself unhappy would have kept that unhappiness as far as possible hers alone. There were those on board that she knew. To them she went; for there was still, since time was short, too much of it. Muriel she took with her.
Schuyler, in his eyes all the virile love that such as he feel for theirs, watched her vanish amid the throngs. Then, sauntering to the rail, leaned against it…. There came into his eyes a look of abstraction, of aberration, of puzzlement. Blake stood watching him— stood for a long time, silent, unmoving…. At length he moved to Schuyler's side.
"Old man," he said, very slowly, very quietly, very earnestly; "old man, what's up?"
Schuyler turned, quickly
"What's up?" he repeated. "What do you mean?"
Blake said, still slowly:
"There's something happened to you."
"Happened," cried Schuyler. "Something happened?" He laughed. "What could have happened?"
"Damned if I know. But something has. I've got a hunch."
Schuyler answered, lightly:
"Well, you'd better take it to a doctor and have it diagnosed." He half turned. "It's only my natural nervousness at leaving Kathryn and Muriel— and the importance of my mission. By the way," he asked, abruptly, "what was that crowd doing on the dock as I came up?"
Blake, selecting a cigarette, lighted it.
"Suicide," he said, curtly.
Schuyler started.
"You say it mighty cold-bloodedly," he asserted. "Where did it happen?"
"Here, I believe. Almost where we are standing."
"Good God! Who was it?"
"Young chap, named Parmalee."
"What? The boy who's been in the papers so much lately—who disgraced himself, and his people, for a woman?"
Blake nodded, and continued:
"Did you happen to notice the woman who passed a moment ago?—the one carrying the red roses?"
Schuyler bent his head.
"I noticed her," he replied, slowly. "What of her?"
"The woman."
"You don't mean Parmalee—?"
"Yes, I do."
"Because his love was not returned?"
"Because," replied Blake, smiling mirthlessly "itwasreturned….Did you ever read that! thing of Kipling's,The Vampire?"
"Why, yes, of course," returned Schuyler. "Almost everyone's read that."
"Do you remember how it goes?" persisted Blake.
Schuyler thought a moment. Then, slowly, he recited:
"A fool there was, and he made his prayer,(Even as you and I)To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair.We called her the woman who did not care.But the fool, he called her his Lady Fair—"
He broke off, abruptly. "A weird thing," he said, as though to himself. "I never thought much about what it meant before…." He turned, abruptly. "Why did you ask me if I'd read it?" he demanded.
"Well," said Blake, flicking the ashes from his cigarette, "there's the fool," he nodded toward the drying spot upon the deck. "And there," he indicated, with a backward toss of his well-shaped head, the corridor down which had passed the woman, "is his lady fair. I've even heard," he went on, "that she used to call him her 'fool,' quoting the poem. Pretty little conceit, eh?" His jaw, firm, square, set tight. Then, with a touch of deeper feeling. "She murdered that boy just as surely as if she had cut his throat; and the worst of it is that she can't be held legally guilty—morally, yes, guilty as sin; but legally—" He shook his head. "The laws that man makes for mankind are a joke."
"As sometimes seem," added Schuyler, slowly, "the laws that God makes for mankind…. If what you say about that woman be true, she ought to be taken by the hair of the head and dragged through the hell she has built for others." His brows were knitted; he was gazing with unseeing eyes upon the bustle and confusion of the dock below.
Blake, eyeing him, remarked quietly, but in tones more light:
"However, that's not your job, nor mine, thank God. It would be an eminently suitable recreation for a debonair young man with a shattered reputation, a cast iron stomach, several millions of dollars and no objections to staying up by the year." He turned a little, toward Schuyler. "What are you thinking about?" he queried.
"Only the fool."
"The generic fool of Kipling, or Young Parmalee?"
"I was thinking of Young Parmalee, then."
"And the woman?"
Schuyler quoted, slowly:
"A fool there was—"
"Oh, but," Blake protested, "I wouldn't call him a fool."
"Why not?" demanded Schuyler. "He was a fool."
"Yes," returned Blake. "But he's dead, now."
"Bosh," retorted Schuyler, impatiently. "I've no sympathy with that false sentiment that forbids one to speak the unpleasant truth of a dead person. If a man were a fool while alive, his dying doesn't absolve him of his folly. Young Parmalee's death was a mitigating circumstance, however. He killed himself; which shows that he had some manhood left. But he should have had the decency to choose another place for his self destruction." He was silent for a moment; at length he went on: "A man is what he is, and he was what he was. His dying can change nothing of his living."
He looked up. His wife and child were coming toward him.
"Say nothing to them about all this, Tom," he urged.
"Certainly not," acquiesced Blake.
A steward came down the deck, calling raucously:
"All ashore that's going ashore!"
Kathryn turned to Schuyler.
"And now that the time has really come to say good-bye," she said, brokenly, "here's something I brought you, Jack."
She handed him a little box of glazed cardboard. Wonderingly he took it.
"For me?" he cried, with simulated gaiety. "That's sweet of you, dear heart—sweeter, even than are these." For he had opened it, and taken forth the tiny bouquet of forget-me-nots that had nestled in the depths of the moist cotton, "and these are sweetness itself. But why forget-me- nots! As though I could ever forget you, even for one little minute!"
There came again the strident call:
"All ashore that's going ashor-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-e!!!"Violet eyes suffused, Kathryn was clinging to him.
"Jack," she whispered. "Jack, I'm afraid I'm—going—to—cry."
With infinite tenderness he held her to him.
"There, there, sweetheart mine," he said, soothingly. "Don't be a silly…. Now we'll all go down to the gangway, where the big hugs are…. Then I'll rush back here and we can wave one another good-bye and try to imagine I'm going only over to Staten Island for the afternoon."
Came farewells at the gangway—farewells of tears, of heart-aches, of quivering lips and moist lids—of laughter quavering and smiles unreal— of the good hand clasp that good men know—the touch of wet, clinging lips.
Schuyler came rushing down the deck, keeping to that part of the ship that lay nearest to the dock. From the bouquet that had been given him, he plucked tiny, fragrant blossoms, casting them to those that had given, and with them sending cheery word of hope, tender word of parting.
He could see them there, far below, straining against the ropes, waving to him. He could see the violet eyes, tear laden, the lithe, slender, figure of his wife in the glory of her perfect womanhood—the sturdy little body of his child, barelegged, browned, hair tumbled, waving frantically a tiny little square of muslin and shouting farewells at the highest pitch of childish treble. He could see his friend—the friend such as few men may ever have, and, having, may pray to hold—broad shoulders protecting wife and child from the pressing throngs—he could hear his voice booming through all the heterogeneous medley of sound.
His voice choked. Words that he was crying—words lost in all the confusion of sound and movement—stuck in his throat. Moisture came to his eyes…. He turned a little…. Came into range of his vision a tiny streak of shifting crimson. He looked.
She was sitting there, on the deck—she—The Woman. She lay back in her chair, long, lithe limbs covered with a rug of crimson and black and dull, dull green. She was dangling gently, sensuously, the great cluster of scarlet roses that she held, now and again bringing them to where their fragrance would reach her delicately-chiseled nose, imperious, haughty…. They looked startlingly red against her cheek—like blood upon the snow…. She was looking at him…. There was no movement, save the even, languorous swing of the crimson blossoms. Lips, vivid red, were motionless, half parted in a little, inscrutable smile…. She was looking at him…. He forgot…. The whistle had been blowing, sounding departure. He had not heard. There was a lull. From afar, shrill, childish voice brought a drifting, "Bye, bye, daddy, dear!" … He did not hear…. Her eyes were on his. His eyes were on hers…. And seemed to be nothing else….
[Illustration]
He had told Parks to come to him as soon as they were under way. There were certain letters that he wished to get off in time to send them back on the pilot boat. Parks found him by the rail, gazing at a tall, darkly- beautiful woman reclining in a steamer chair, eyes only visible above a great cluster of crimson blossoms. Parks had spoken to him three times before there was forthcoming a reply. Then, slowly, as a man awakening from a heavy sleep, Schuyler had gone with him to his room.
He had tried to dictate his correspondence; had tried, and failed. There were many mistakes. His thoughts would not seem to coalesce. His mind was not upon what he was doing, nor could he place it there. And Schuyler's was a brain that had always been to him an admirably trained servant, coming when he willed it, doing what he willed and in the way he willed…. But today it was a servant sullen, rebellious, recalcitrant. … The letters remained unwritten. Nothing was sent back with the pilot. And Parks, wondering, puzzled—and, perhaps, a bit perturbed— watched the pilot swing down the Jacob's ladder, and make across the water toward his craft, with wonderment, puzzlement, perturbation no bit abated.
Schuyler paced the deck all that day. Lunch he did not touch. Dinner found him undesirous of food. He was walking—walking—striding up and down, up and down—deep in thought, it seemed—and yet he had not been able to dictate his letters. Parks wondered yet more. At length he went to his employer and asked him if he were not needed. The answer was curt; it was "no." And never before had Parks been answered without a cordial nod, or, perhaps, the good smile of good-fellowship…. He could not understand.
And Schuyler? His brain was in a tumult. Like us all, there were many things that he did not know—there were many things that he did not even know there were to know…. Some of these he was beginning to learn. It had shaken him—it was shaking him—to his soul.
He did not see The Woman again that day…. Her room was across the corridor from his. He heard her voice, directing the steward to bring to her her dinner….
It was dark that night—dark as night seldom gets in the northern latitudes, in June. The lights of the deck looked like vigorous glowworms. The stars seemed very far away. Far below, as he paced, he could see dimly a great blackness that was the sea, and against it the white of the waves as they broke sullenly against the huge hull…. Later it became yet more black. The stars vanished…. The ship seemed a world of its own, hurling through an eternity of utter, deadly space. A wind sprang up, a wind from the East, wet and vicious, a wind that spat upon one, that chilled one, that slapped one with clammy fingers.
Schuyler paced the deck. Coming out of the dim half light of the promenade into the corner of the rail, by the bow, he thought he saw her. He was not sure at first…. Then, though his eyes pierced no more clearly, he was sure…. He went closer. She stood there, white hands clasping the bare rail, lithe, sinewy, lazy body, tilted a bit backward as though in the grasp of the spitting wind. Her throat was bare to it, and her breast. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were deep lidded. Her head was poised like a tiger lily upon its stalk…. He stood there, enveloped in the blackness…. For a long time she stood motionless. Then she stretched her white arms above her head, stretched the long muscles of her body, as a panther stretches. She was very, very beautiful…. He stood watching…. The ship lurched. It reeled against a huge wave, shivering it into roaring spume. The wet fingers of the wind had wrapped her garments about her, every fold tight against her rounded body. She stood, arms above her head, lips parted, silhouetted against the foam…. The ship reeled again, and there came darkness utter…. When again there was light so that one might see, Schuyler stood alone.
Six bells had struck ere he went to his room. Then, scourged of body, scourged of soul, wracked, harassed, torn, he sought his berth. But he did not sleep. He thought of Parmalee, the boy who was a man. He thought of The Woman. He thought of himself. He thought of the wife that he loved. He thought of the child that he loved—the child that had come to him through that wife. He thought of all these things, and of many more; and he did not understand; he did not know. For God has shown even the wisest of us but little of this world in which we live.
[Illustration]
It was two months later. In the little garden that lay on the side of the big, rambling house at Larchmont where the sun best loved to dwell, roses were in bloom; and roses, even as the sun, seemed to love that garden. They clustered, great masses of glowing white, against the latticed arbor—they caught playfully at one's hat as one would walk through the gate that led to the broad green lawn, and to the Sound beyond—they snatched at one's clothing as one would walk past the largest bush—the one that stretched its branches across the French window. It was a real garden—an out-of-door home—a garden in which one might live, and in which one might be glad that one was alive.
At one side of a tiny writing table set upon the thick, carpet-like sward, sat the mother, pen in hand, before her a half-finished letter. Across from her the child pressed strong white teeth into the yielding wood of her pencil; and before her, too, was a half-written letter—a sprawling, uncertain letter of childhood.
At length the child looked up. She could see that her mother was not writing; so if she spoke, she would not be interrupting.
"Mother, dear?"
"Yes, honey?"
"How do you spell love?"
"Don't you know, dearie?"
The child shook her head.
"L," prompted the mother.
Muriel ventured, dubiously:
"L-a-?"
Her mother shook her head. The child ventured again:
"L-i-?"
"No, honey."
The child kicked her brown little legs.
"Tell me, mother dear," she besought. "Please tell me."
"L-o-v-e," spelled the mother.
"Oh, yes! I 'member now…. Mother, dear?"
"Yes, little sweetheart?"
"When is a daddy coming home? It's awfully hard to write letters. He's been gone a long time now, hasn't he, mother dear?"
"Yes, dearie…. A long, long time." The violet eyes were sad.
"'Most a year?" persisted the little one.
Her mother smiled a little, wanly.
"It seems like it, doesn't it?" she said. "But it's only two months—not only two months," she corrected; "but two months."
Came a little pause. It was broken again by Muriel.
"Mother, dear."
"Yes?"
"Can't I make the rest just kisses?"
With a smile—a smile of infinite love and tenderness, the mother leaned across and kissed the child that was hers.
"Of course you may, dearie," she assented, softly.
"Why don't you write kisses, too, mother, dear?" queried the little one. "It's lots easier…. Oh, mother, dear! I'll tell you what I wrote if you'll tell me what you wrote. Will you?"
Violet eyes gave loving assent.
"Oh, goody! We won't tell anyone else, will we?"
"No, dearie."
"Then," declared Muriel, "I'll read mine."
She picked up the wrinkled little sheet of sadly irregular chirography.
"Dear father daddy," she read. "It rained yesterday. Mother and I are well. We hope you are well and God gave our new cat four kittens." She looked up into the face of her mother. "God is awfully good to cats, isn't He, mother dear?" she asked. She went on, then, with the assurance of childhood: "Please come home. We miss you. I fell in the lake yesterday, but didn't take cold. I love you…. And the rest is just kisses."
She eyed her mother anxiously.
"Do you think daddy will like that letter?" she asked.
Her mother's voice was a bit uneven as she answered.
"I'm sure he will, little sweetheart I'msurehe will."
"Now," requested the child, "you read yours."
Kathryn, drawing the child to her, bent forward. There was much in her heart—much that she might not tell to anyone of all the world save two— and one of these was far away; and, even though the other could not understand, still—
She read:
"My John: You know how we love you, but you don't know how we miss you. Please, please come back to us. If it weren't for Muriel I don't know what I'd do, John, dear. I don't want to make you unhappy. I want you to have all the honors—all the prominence—everything that a man's heart holds dear. But I can't help being jealous a little of the things that are keeping you from us…."
She ceased, turning her head away. A robin, in the roses, lifting its head, broke into song. The child waited, patiently…. At length she inquired:
"Is that all, mother dear?"
Kathryn nodded. "Yes, honey."
"Haven't you made any kisses?"
"No, dearie."
"But," protested the child, "daddy'll be so disappointed!"
"Will he, honey? That wouldn't do, would it? … Very well, then, mother'll make some kisses."
With Muriel looking on, the mother made several large, and heavy crosses at the foot of that which she had written. There were other marks on that letter—marks that were not kisses—marks that had been made by moisture, and that had smeared the ink as they had been quickly wiped away.
These the child did not notice; she was looking toward the house.
"Here comes Aunt Elinor, mother, dear," she said.
[Illustration]
Mrs. VanVorst had been very ill. A fever, contracted in South Africa where she had been with her husband—a fever gained in a futile effort to save the life of that husband, had sadly fagged a naturally vigorous constitution. There had been a recurrence soon after her return to America. Now she was in that condition of indolent convalescence that is in women so interesting, in men so uninteresting.
She was an out-of-door woman, tall, lithe, willowy. In the rugged health that was normally hers, she seemed muscled almost like one of the opposite sex; yet she lost by it none of the charm of frank femininity that was hers. She was long-limbed, clean-limbed, quick of mind and of body…. The forced inaction of illness was irksome to her. It was hard for her to walk slowly; it was hard for her to sit in silent inaction— to lie in indolent unrest. Too, she felt more than anyone save herself might ever know the loss of the man that had been to her not only husband but as well friend, companion and comrade.
She had been of the world, though anything but worldly. She knew perhaps, more than many another of the Hidden Things.
She strolled forward through the sun-flecked garden. A magazine, its leaves still uncut, was in her hand. She sank into a chair, in a spot from which she might see the Sound and its burden of sails.
"Tom come yet?" she asked.
Kathryn shook her head.
"Not yet."
"Heard from Jack to-day?"
Again Kathryn made negation.
"The foreign mail hasn't come yet," she said. "I told Pierre to stop at the office for it."
Elinor, selecting a paper knife, ran it slowly between the pages of her magazine.
"That business of his seems to be keeping him a long time," was her comment. "What did he say in his last letter?"
"Why, there are several matters of great importance that still remain unsettled. It's not a little thing, his mission, you know. I don't know much about such things; but diplomatic questions, it always seemed to me, take years and years of all manner of serious discussion, and weighty argument."
Kathryn tried to speak lightly; yet the heaviness of her heart was pitifully apparent. Elinor was scanning a colored frontispiece—a thing of vivid yellows and brilliant blues.
"You're feeling almost like yourself again, aren't you, Nell?"
Elinor nodded.
"Yes," she replied. "Thanks to you."
"You were very ill."
"One more doctor would have finished me."
Of a sudden, there came from the drive the quick honking of an automobile horn, together with the soft purring of an engine. Muriel leaped to her feet; brown little legs flashed as she made her way across the garden.
Kathryn and Elinor watched her going. They heard her cry, "Oh, Mr. Tom!" Another moment and Blake, carrying the child in his arms, thrust aside the bending heads of the white roses and made his way into the garden.
"Hello, folks," was his greeting. "Is God in?"
"Who?" demanded Elinor.
"God," he returned. "This is heaven, isn't it? It certainly does seem like it to anyone who has just come from the fireless cooker that sometimes rejoices under the name of Manhattan. My old Aunt Maria! But it is hot there, though."
"We're very glad to see you, Tom," Kathryn began; "although we do owe you a scolding."
"What for?" he demanded, setting the child to the sward and taking off his hat.
"You haven't been near us for a fortnight."
He seated himself, mopping his forehead.
"Business, Kate. Business," he declared, importantly.
Elinor laughed in pleasant irony.
"Business!" she repeated.
"I said, 'business,'" he retorted.
"Yes," she rejoined; "but you can't prove it."
"Can't eh?" he inquired. "Well, you go back to the wicked metropolis and you'll find that my rent is paid and that a coupon's been cut from one of my bonds. And who did it, I'd like to know?"
"Oh, your secretary, or the janitor, or somebody," returned Elinor, easily. "Not you."
Tom laughed.
"I must have a very negligible reputation for industry in this menage.How do you think I spend all my time?"
Elinor, arms akimbo, half faced him.
"Well, Mr. Bones," she asked. "How do you spend all your time?"
He grinned at her, friendlily.
"Feeling better, aren't you?"
"I feel so well," she returned, "that if this doctor of mine weren't such a Simon Legree, I could play you eighteen holes of golf for a box of gloves against a box of cigars."
"Gambler!" he scoffed. "And if I should win, I suppose I'd have to smoke the cigars."
"Certainly," she countered, easily, "if I should have to wear the gloves."
He sank back in the big chair.
"Well," he asserted, "it were useless to speculate on that which may never be. I am at present in that interesting state of a man's career where golf doesn't belong. A man who is beyond the first flush of adolescence and not yet in the last pallor of senility, has no business dallying with golf. He's liable to get sunstruck."
Muriel, who had been listening with round, wondering eyes, ran to her mother.
"What does he mean, mother dear?" she asked.