Elinor replied instead, laughing.
"Nobody knows, Muriel. Not even he."
"Now that's unkind, Nell," protested Blake; "unkind though true."
The child, eyeing them for a minute in serious non-understanding, recurred with the facility of the very young to other things.
"Oh, mother dear!" she cried. "We forgot to stick up our letters to daddy."
Taking her mother's hand, she led her to the little table. Elinor, left alone with Blake, turned to him and queried:
"Heard from Jack lately?"
He shook his head.
"Not lately. Not since I've seen you."
"Not enjoying himself much, I suppose," she commented. "He always stuck to this place in summer like a barnacle. Was crazy about it."
Blake, sitting with left fist in right palm, eyes upon the velvety green of the lawn, shook his head, slowly.
"He shouldn't have left a home like this if they'd offered to make himQueen of Sheba," was his comment.
Kathryn had turned to him. There was in her eyes a frank gladness—a sincere welcome. She was glad to see him; how glad, she herself scarcely knew. She had few friends; for there were but few people for whom she really cared. She had known Blake for many, many years—known him and liked him, and liking, had respected. He was of the few men whom money, and bachelorhood, have no power to spoil. And they are few indeed. The one has power to spoil, you know, even as has the other; and both together—unusual indeed is the man who can resist.
"It's good to see you again, Tom," she declared. "It's been lonely here…. And I never thought that would happen."
"It's good to be here," he returned, looking steadily upon her. "It's good to be here, Kate. It's a perfect place, this—perfect."
Elinor had risen; plucking a bending blossom, inhaling of its delicate fragrance, she had wandered through the broad archway of the arbor, toward the Sound.
There was a moment of silence. There came from between Blake's lips a deep sigh.
Kathryn looked up, quickly.
"What's the matter, Tom?"
He shook his head again.
"I don't know. Sometimes things go all wrong—dead wrong—and no one can tell why, or how, or what to do."
"Why, Tom!" she cried. "What do you mean? Has anything—"
"Mean?" he interrupted. "Oh, nothing. Nothing, of course. I—I guess it's loneliness. There are a lot of people who think because I have a motor to smell, a yacht to make my friends seasick and a club window to decorate, that I'm contented with my lot. But at heart I'm the most domestic individual that ever desecrated a dinner coat; and sometimes the natural tendencies of the gregarious male animal will not down. There's too much of the concentrated quintessence of unadulterated happiness lying around here. Maybe that's it."
"We have been happy here, Tom—very, very happy." Then, quickly: "I'm sorry, Tom…. I understand, and I'm sorry."
He smiled.
"It's nothing, Kate," he declared, "nothing at all. You've got to expect a bachelor to kick every once in a while, you know. They're a peevish lot of old guys."
[Illustration]
Toward the child of his friend, and of his friend's wife, Blake felt not as men in his place would have felt. The love that he had for the dainty little thing of gold-brown hair, and gold-brown cheeks, and straight, sturdy little legs was the love of a man for his own. It seemed to him, almost, that she was flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, bone of his bone. It was the "almost" that hurt; for she was the child of the woman he loved, and of another man….
To love the wife of another man is a bitter thing—a bitter thing. To love with dishonor is not hard; but to love with honor were hard indeed. To go away, so loving, were to render more easy to bear the thing that must be borne. To stay—to see day by day the happiness that lieth beyond hope, were to stand in hell and gaze at heaven. And this were most bitter, most hard, of all. Yet this was what Blake had done. This was what Blake would do; and it was what he expected to keep on doing until there was no such thing as time and the souls of all men were dead. He did it because all that lay for him in life lay there, even though not the tiniest bit of it could he claim for his own. And he was a man of heart, as well as of head, and honor.
Perhaps it was because he had loved the woman who was the wife of his friend, since the day when she was as her daughter was now; that his love for the little one that was of her transcended all else in his being—all else save the one thing that he never mentioned, not even to himself. SHE had been like that; a dainty, pretty, loving, simple, naive, sturdy, rugged little thing, with wind-blown hair, and sun-tanned cheeks and legs—soft, gentle, infinitely appealing, generous, loving. In the little one that was of her, he saw her again, violet-eyed, glowing with the glorious abundance of vigor, building wondrous castles of blue beach clay, counting the soaring gulls against the soft blue of summer skies, wandering, laughingly, through daisy fields, rolling, a whirling little tumult of lace and ribbons and wildly-waving bare legs down the stacks of fragrant hay. She had been like that. Small wonder that on her child he lavished all the choked tenderness that cried, sometimes, so, so piteously for outlet.
And as for the child—'way, down deep in her little heart, she had builded of the infinity of her love, three sky-reaching heaps, each one bigger, and more wonderful than the other. One of these she gave to her mother; one to her daddy; and one to "Mr. Tom." And she deemed herself not undutiful, nor lacking in filial amity, for so doing.
Kathryn had followed her sister into the house. Left alone with Blake, Muriel ran swiftly to him, bounding to his knee, and clasping around his neck strong little arms.
"Mr. Tom," she cried, "you haven't told me a story for most a year!"
He held her to him.
"Haven't I, little partner?" he inquired, with infinite tenderness. "Well, that's a grave omission, isn't it? I'll tell you one now." As she sank down contentedly in his lap, and settled her outspreading little skirt primly about her: "What shall it be about?"
"A fairy story," she suggested. "A fairy story about a little girl."
He sat for a moment, in thought; at length he began:
"Well, once upon a time, there was a little girl—a fairy princess."
"Was she pretty?"
"Beautiful. Beautiful as she was good, good as she was beautiful. She was a wonderful, wonderful princess. There was a fairy prince, too," he went on, "a handsome, dashing—a prince that everyone loved and admired and honored."
She nodded, seriously.
"Yes," she said. "Go on."
"Now in the part of the country—it was called the Land of the GreatUnrest—there lived a gnome who was a friend of the prince and princess.Do you know what a gnome is?"
Little brows were bent deep in mental flagellation. Then, at length, very eruditely, she ventured:
"No'm is when you say no to a lady, isn't it?"
He laughed, a little; then, seriously:
"That's a different kind of a gnome. The kind of a gnome I mean is a fat man, with long, thin legs and a big, round body and a funny face."
"Oh, now I know!" she cried. "There's a picture of one in the book that you gave me for my birthday. Only this one had whiskers and a funny cap— like a cornucopia."
He nodded.
"That's the fellow," he agreed. "That's the kind I mean—only all of them don't have whiskers; and some of them wear yachting caps, or panamas, or most anything…. Well, the prince and the princess loved one another, and they got married."
"That was nice."
"Yes," he added; "for them. But it wasn't for the gnome. You see, the gnome loved the princess, too."
"Did she know it?"
He shook his head. "No one knew it but the gnome," he returned. "And the prince and princess were very happy. Then a little princess came to live with them, and they were happier yet."
"A little princess like me?" she queried, interestedly.
"Very much like you," he assented.
"And what did the gnome do?"
"Why," he replied, "the gnome just went away and lived in a hole in the ground, all alone."
"Didn't he ever come out?"
"Yes; he used to come out sometimes to tell fairy stories to little girls. But he had to go back again, all alone."
She sighed most dismally and said:
"Poor, old gnome."
"Poor, old gnome," he repeated.
"And then—?" she prompted.
"That's all."
"Isn't there any more?"
"No."
She gazed up at him, disappointedly.
"I don't think that's a very nice story," she declared.
"Don't you?" he said; "I'm sorry, little partner. I didn't mean to tell you that story. I—"
He ceased speaking. Elinor was beside him. He rose to his feet, hastily, confused. It was no little thing that he had told; it was a thing that he had never meant to tell. It had come to his lips, as a parable; because of the way he felt toward the child that was not his; because to her it would never have meant anything; and because of the things inside that had struggled for outlet so long. He wondered if she had heard, and hearing, had understood…. He could not tell….
She spoke to Muriel.
"Run in to Mawkins, dear," she instructed. Then, as the child, obedient, scampered from the room, she turned to Blake, thrusting toward him a letter, and concluded:
"Read that."
[Illustration]
Blake took the letter. With its taking there came to him a premonition that the things that he had suspected—the things that he had heard—the things that to him were as unbelievable, as utterly absurd, and ridiculous, and impossible, as might be the vainest imaginings of the vainest, had been proven true.
Over the first of the letter, he skipped cursorily…. At length he found John Schuyler's name. The passage relative to the name was brief. He read it, slowly, word by word. Then he handed back the letter to Elinor.
She had seated herself, waiting. One knee was crossed over the other; and over the upper, her hands were clasped. She was eyeing him keenly, closely, eyes half closed, brows contracted.
To her Blake turned.
"Well?" he interrogated.
"I've known Martha Dale for sixteen years. She, Kathryn, and I were children together…. I think you knew her, too…. She's not the woman to make a charge like that unless it's true."
Blake shrugged his shoulders. A great pain shot through his heart; a great numbness clamped his brain. He had heard things himself. He had seen people who themselves had seen, or thought that they had seen. One man he had knocked down. With two more, his good friends, he had quarreled irrevocably. And in his own soul, something had told him that it was he who was wrong.
He said to Elinor; even as over and over and over he had said to himself:
"There's some mistake. There must be some mistake. It's impossible."
She eyed him shrewdly.
"There's no mistake" she returned. "She talked with him. She saw him with this woman. They were at the same hotel where Martha stayed. And the morning after she came, they left…. There's no mistake."
"But Jack wouldn't do a thing like that," he protested.
"You're a bad liar, Tom. You knew."
"No!" he cried.
"You did. You know you did…. How long have you known this thing and kept it from those who should be told?"
"Who should be told?"
"Kathryn."
"No!"
"But I say yes!" She went on, almost fiercely: "Do you think I'll have my sister—the sister whom I love better than anyone in the whole world— fooled and shamed and disgraced and dishonored by a man like that?"
He raised his hand, protestingly.
"You wouldn't tell her!" he cried.
She nodded, jaw set.
"I would," she declared.
"It would kill her!"
"Nearly; but not quite. She has too much of her father in her for that.And she must know. It is her right."
"And take away her every chance of happiness—and his of redemption."
"Her every chance of happiness is gone; as is his for redemption," she said, bitterly. And then: "He should have thought of these things before he did what he did…. There's one thing to be done, and only one. I shall tell her."
He remarked, slowly:
"The woman's way: To bring suffering where suffering might be spared."
She rounded on him, swiftly.
"The man's way: to stick to the husband, and deceive the wife…. You men have two codes of ethics—a loose, convenient one for yourselves, a tight, uncompromising one for us. There are no two codes of ethics. Right is right, and wrong is wrong; and there can be no compromise. When a man marries a woman, he owes to that woman every bit as much as she owes to him…. Suppose," she went on, tensely, "that it were Kathryn who had done this thing—who had lied and deceived where she had promised to love and honor. What then? Would you tell the husband, or wouldn't you?"
He considered; and said, slowly, positively:
"I'd lie like the devil."
She whirled about.
"You would?"
"I would."
"Well, I won't. And," she declared, lips tight pressed, jaw tight set, "I shall tell her."
Then from the house came Kathryn, happily, gaily. In her hand there was a letter, a letter with a foreign post-mark, a letter that, from its jagged end, had been torn open, with eager hands.
"A note from Jack!" she cried.
"What does he say?" demanded Elinor, tensely, her lithe fingers interwoven.
"Oh, terribly lonely," returned her sister—"trying so hard to finish his work and get back to us. I'm adding a postscript." She seated herself before the writing table. "Do you two want to send any messages?"
For a moment—for a long, long moment—did Mrs. VanVorst stand, silent, motionless. All that the thing meant that she was about to do, no one knew better than she. She stood, silent, eyes half closed, hands clenched. Blake watched her, shrewdly.
After a long, long time, she took a short step forward.
"Kate," she began. "Kate, dear. I have something to tell you."
[Illustration]
Kathryn, busy at her postscript, did not hear. Blake stepped swiftly forward.
"No!" he whispered. "No!"
Elinor put him aside.
"Kate!" she said again.
Blake stood for a moment, hesitant. Muriel had come from the house. To her he called.
"Come here, little partner."
Obediently, she came running to him. He seated himself, and took her upon his lap.
"Do you remember the story that I told you a little while ago?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Well, there's more to that story. Would you like to hear it?" He did not wait for her answer; he spoke swiftly, surely. Elinor, across the table, eyed him curiously. Kathryn, still writing, was oblivious quite to all that was going on around her.
Blake continued:
"Well, there came a time when the prince had to go a long, long way off. The princess was very sorry to see him go, and so was the little princess; and they cried; but they were brave princesses, so they didn't cry much; they stayed at home and wrote him letters with kisses in them.
"And then,—well, the fairy prince met a witch—a wicked, wicked witch— and she charmed him, and took him away with her. Now the fairy princess had a sister. She was a good woman; and, like all good women, she was hard-headed. The sister heard about the witch, and she wanted to run right home as fast as she could, and tell all about it. And that would have made the princess cry, and the prince go away and die, all alone."
The lids over the violet eyes were blinking; the lips quivered.
"I want to cry, Mr. Tom," she complained. "That's worse than the other story!"
"Ah, but," went on Blake, hurriedly, "the sister didn't tell. She wasn't hard-headed. She listened to the voice of reason, rather than to that of intuition—"
"What's that word you just said, Mr. Tom?"
"Intuition?"
She nodded.
"Eh—ah," he hesitated, then, "why, intuition is a thing that women use for a brain. And," he continued, "bye and bye the fairy prince managed to get away from the wicked witch that had charmed him, and he came back again to the fairy princess, and the little fairy princess; and though of course he had been very, very bad—very, very wicked—he was forgiven; and they were almost as happy as they had been before he went away…. Do you like that story any better, little partner?"
She was all smiles now. She nodded, brightly.
"Heaps, and heaps, and heaps!" she cried.
"That's good," he said, as he set her down.
Kathryn had raised her head from her writing.
"Fairy story, Tom?" she queried, in the half-attention of preoccupation.
"Yes," he replied.
"Does it end happily?"
Ere he could have replied, her thoughts were again of her letter.
Blake walked slowly to where stood Elinor. She was toying with a hanging blossom of white, fragrant, spreading. Her eyes were moist; her hand trembled.
He asked, very softly:
"Does it end happily, Nell?"
She turned to him. Her lips quivered.
"I hope so," she whispered. "Only God Himself knows how I hope so!" And then she added slowly, "If women were only as loyal to women as men are to men!"
[Illustration]
Blake had suspected; but he had refused to believe. Now he knew. And half an hour later, "The Vagrant," under full head of steam, was surging down the Sound with a great, white bone in her teeth and a great, fan- like wake spreading huge rollers from her trim stern.
She anchored off Thirty-Fourth Street. The launch was ready almost as the chain rattled. Blake's big French car was waiting for him at the pier; and, with scant regard for the speed ordinances, it bore him swiftly through the traffic-thronged streets to lower Fifth Avenue, and to the house of Dr. DeLancey.
The passing of the years had made but little change in either the good doctor or his abode. His office looked the same—dry and musty. He looked the same—shrewd and kindly.
"Come in," he said, with the testiness that in him was cordiality concentrated. "Come in. Don't stand there like a gump stretching my bell- wire all out of shape. Come in. Come in."
Blake entered.
"Well," said the doctor, leading the way into his office. "What's the matter now. Sick? You don't look it. If all my patients were like you and the Schuylers, I'd starve to death." He fumbled with an old-fashioned cedar cigar chest. "Smoke?"
Blake took the cigar, and lighted it.
"Well," said the doctor, again. "For heaven's sake, what's the matter! Have you become suddenly dumb? You have a tongue, haven't you? If you have, for goodness' sake, use it."
Blake answered, slowly:
"Doctor, it's about Jack Schuyler."
The sudden little look of anxiety that sprang to the good old man's eyes showed how much the statement meant to him.
"About Jack Schuyler!" he exclaimed. "What about Jack Schuyler? No harm— he's not ill?"
"Very, very ill, I fear," Blake responded. "I don't understand it at all.I can't comprehend—"
The doctor brought his old fist down upon the scratched top of his old desk.
"Will you stop hemming and hawing and shilly-shallying around and come to the point!" he fairly howled.
"It's about Jack Schuyler," repeated Blake, slowly, "and a woman."
Doctor DeLancey started. He sat erect.
"What!" he cried. "Jack Schuyler and a woman? You're a fool! It's ridiculous—impossible—absurd!"
"That's what I've been telling myself for the past month," rejoinedBlake…. "But it's not ridiculous—it's not impossible—it's not absurd.Would to God it were!"
"But Jack Schuyler!" protested the doctor, incredulously. "Why, I've known him since he was born. And I knew his father, and his mother, and his grandfather and his grandmother before him! Damme, I don't believe it. I won't believe it!"
"Neither did I," returned Blake. "Neither would I—until—"
He told the doctor of the letter that had come; and of that which it contained. In silence the doctor listened, and to the end.
There was a pause; Blake continued:
"I don't believe I could do anything. I'd lose my head. I want you to go to him, to see if there isn't something that you can do. I'll pay—"
The doctor leaped from his chair, waggling an old finger in Blake's face.
"Pay!" he yelled. "Pay me for going to Jack Schuyler! You keep your dashed money, my boy. When I want any, I'll ask you for it. D'ye hear me? I'll ask you for it! When does the first boat sail?"
"It sails to-night—in half an hour," returned Blake. "It's the 'Vagrant'…. I'm going, too…. I want to be near at hand…. Good God!" he cried, suddenly. It was almost a wail. "To think of Jack Schuyler— our Jack Schuyler!—like that!"
The doctor came in from the hall whence he had rushed. One arm was in the sleeve of his coat. His hat was over his ear. He was vainly trying to put his left glove on his right hand.
"Well?" he blurted, "what are you standing there for like a bump on a log? Why don't you get started? What's the matter with you, anyhow? Come on!" He turned, and shouted up the stairs: "Mary! Mary! Ma-a-a-a-ry, I say! I'm going away. Don't know when I'll be back. Ask young Dr. Houghton, across the street, to take care of my patients until I get home. He'll probably kill a lot of 'em; but I can't help that."
And still shouting, still fussing with glove and sleeve, he bumbled out the door, and down the steps to the waiting car.
[Illustration]
Blake waited on the yacht, in the harbor of Liverpool. It was hard for him to sit idly by at such a time; but he felt that it was best. There was in his soul a great pity, to be sure—a great grief—a great horror— yet there was there too a great, deep anger, and a wild resentment; for he loved the daughter of Jimmy Blair, you know; and it was not alone that Jack Schuyler was his friend; it was as well that he was her husband, and the father of her child. So he did not trust himself to go, then; for he knew that all that he might do, Dr. DeLancey could do, and more.
Dr. DeLancey went, then, alone. In London he found John Schuyler. He did not announce himself; he bullied and stormed and finally persuaded those who stood between him and his quarry, to let him go unannounced.
He did not knock. Instead he thrust open the door and entered. Schuyler was standing before the grate with its burden of glowing coals. He looked up. He started, rubbing his eyes as one who sees but doesn't believe that which his gaze tells him to be so.
"It's you!" he cried.
Dr. DeLancey nodded.
"Yes," he said, simply. "Jack, I've come to take you home. The yacht's waiting at Liverpool. Tom's boat, you know. Steam's up. So get your hat."
Schuyler raised his hand, protestingly.
"But," he began, "I—"
The doctor cried, explosively:
"Don't you try to argue with me, young man. I've neglected my practice and let everything go to the devil to come over here, and I don't want any of your dashedbutsthrown at me. You get your hat and coat and you come with me. D'ye hear me?"
"I can't go," said Schuyler.
The doctor brought his flat fist down upon the center table.
"Can't go!" he howled. "In about a split second I'll show you whether you can't or not. You get your hat and coat! Or," he went on, "come without 'em. It's all the same to me. Parks can pack up your things, and come on the 'Transitania,' to-morrow. You're coming now. D'ye hear me? You're coming now—this dashed instant!"
He advanced upon Schuyler, gripping him by the arm. Schuyler stood for a brief moment, doggedly. Then suddenly his head dropped forward upon his breast.
"Very well," he acquiesced, slowly. Suddenly his voice broke. He almost whispered:
"I'm glad you've come, doctor…. I was helpless—utterly helpless."
They took the train within the hour. And the following morning found the "Vagrant" at sea, with John Schuyler on board. Yet it was a different John Schuyler from the one they had known. He had refused to shake hands with either Blake, or the doctor. He did not mention the woman; nor did they. They tried to be toward him as they had always been—as though all that had happened alone in imagination…. He did not sleep; he ate but little; and he drank, some.
Blake was heart-sick—soul-sick. To see the man that he had known and loved as that man was! But Dr. DeLancey assured him:
"It'll take a year or two. But he'll be all right in the end."
And yet even Dr. DeLancey did not feel certain that it was the truth that he spoke.
In crossing, Schuyler spent much time on a long, long letter—a letter that required much rewriting. On landing, he mailed that letter to the daughter of Jimmy Blair.
As, on the pier, he separated from Blake and Dr. DeLancey, in spite of the insistent pleas of the one, and the testy commands of the other, that he come to live with them. He said, only:
"I shall go to a hotel. I shall stay there a fortnight. Don't come to see me. Don't let anyone come to see me. Don't even try to find out where I am. There's one thing, and only one, for me to do. I'm going to try to do it…. Sometime, I hope that I may shake hands with you, Tom. Sometime I want to shake hands with Dr. DeLancey. I want to tell you both all there is in my heart to tell you. But that time is not yet. God bless you for all that you've done for me."
And, white-lipped, moist-eyed, he left them.
[Illustration]
The library of John Schuyler's town house was a large room, done in dull browns and deep greens. All that good taste and a sufficient purse could do to beautify it—to render it alike pleasing and restful to the eye, comforting and satisfying to the soul, had been done. Carpeting was deep and rich. The walls were panelled of mahogany, and the bookshelves sunk into their dull depths. On either side of the door leading to the hall hung a painting, the one a Turner, the other a Corregio. There was a fireplace—a huge fireplace wherein might lie a four-foot log; above it a mirrored mantel; before it the skin of a jaguar. Across from this, a narrow flight of stairs led to the private apartments of the owner.
It was early fall now. The roses in the garden of the Larchmont place had withered, and fallen. It had been a dun morning, a morning of dull gray…. Schuyler sat at the big, mahogany desk in the center of his library. Papers lay spread upon the table before him. A decanter of cut glass and silver lay there, also.
The Schuyler that had come was different, very, from the Schuyler that had gone. He was still quick, agile, alert; but there was gone from his clean-cut face the expression of cheerful optimism—of confident happiness—of all-spreading good-fellowship. Little wrinkles had gathered at eye-corners—deeper were the lines that ran from nostrils to the ends of his mouth. But these changes one might not have noticed were it not for the eyes. For, from these the light had gone. They were as lamps unlit.
Yet was there one other change apparent; for while before he had concentrated easily upon that which he had to do, now it was with difficulty—almost, even, with impossibility. He paused, often, to pour from the decanter a little brandy into a small glass, and to drink that which he had poured. He rose from his chair, to stride nervously, up and down, up and down. He seated himself only to drink again; he drank again only to rise again; he rose again only to sit again.
He rapped, at length, upon the little bell that lay upon the table.Waited; then rapped again. And his brows creased in petulance.
"Now where the devil is Parks?" he muttered, nervously.
He waited; and drank while waiting. Then rang again the bell.
Even as its mellow note pierced the silence of the room, the door opened, and Parks entered. He crossed to the desk, and laid upon it a bundle of documents that he had brought. At his clear-cut face Schuyler looked.
"Well, here you are at last, eh? Anyone would think that I had sent you to Singapore for those papers instead of merely upstairs."
"I'm very sorry, sir," was Parks' quiet response.
Schuyler took the papers, drawing them to him.
"That's all," he said, curtly. "You may go."
"But—"
"I said you might go."
Parks still hesitated. Schuyler looked at him angrily.
"I merely wished to say," Parks spoke deferentially, even soothingly, and possibly a bit reluctantly, "that there is a lady—"
Schuyler interrupted, quickly.
Parks nodded.
"Yes, sir. The lady."
Schuyler said, eyes closing a little:
"A lady."
"Well, send her—" Then, as Parks started to go: "No, tell her I'm not here."
"Very well, sir."
Again Parks started to leave the room; again Schuyler stopped him.
"Wait. I've changed my mind. I'll see her."
He reached for the decanter of brandy, and poured into one of the glasses an even inch of the amber liquor. He raised the glass to his lips; but set it down again untasted; for Parks had started to speak again.
"Also there's a van here for your wife's—pardon me, for Mrs. Schuyler's furniture and trunks."
Schuyler's brows contracted; there was the slightest suggestion of a quiver at lip-ends. Then, after a long, long pause, he replied:
"Well, let them take all that she selected…. And Parks."
"Yes, sir?"
"I won't see the lady after all."
Parks nodded, and quietly withdrew. Left alone, Schuyler for some moments sat silent and motionless before his desk. But nowadays, he could not sit motionless for long. There was that inside his brain—inside his soul— which would not let him. It kept him moving—moving—moving, without rest, without cessation; even as he had paced the deck of the liner, on that other morning, almost until the day had come to claim again from the night that which was its own.
Of a sudden he rose from his chair. Swift strides took him across the room. Quickly, nervously, he drew back the curtain from the window…. He could see, beneath him in the street, the van that had come for the belongings of his wife—of the woman who had borne him his child—the child which he had not seen since, upon the dock, she had waved him farewell.
John Schuyler had wandered into the Unknown. Unwillingly, knowing full well what he was doing, but powerless to help—powerless to prevent—he had gone…. Sometimes it did not seem real to him. It was a nightmare— a horrid, horrible, awful, grewsome, rotten dream, a dream that brought to his nostrils a stench—to his soul a coldness unutterable—a coldness beside which that of death might seem a grateful warmth…. He would wake sometimes from his dreams, a cold sweat enveloping him like a pall, a scream upon his lips…. And then, again—He did not understand. He could not understand. It was hopeless, utterly, utterly hopeless…. Why should such things be? How could such things be? There was a God, presumably. Presumably, that God was good…. There was no logic in it—no reason in it…. What did it all mean? "Why?" he asked himself, again and again, and yet again. "Why?" … There had been no answer….
He watched the van load. He watched the heavy horses throw themselves into the traces, as the whip fell across their flanks. He watched the van slowly gather momentum. He watched it rumble heavily down the sodden asphalt…. At length it turned the corner….
John Schuyler swung on his heel. And then he laughed; it was a laugh that, God grant, you may never laugh, nor I!
[Illustration]
He did not see her enter. He did not hear her enter. Yet he knew that she was there, although he had left her across an ocean…. Another sense, it seemed, there was within him…. He knew that she had crossed the room; that she was leaning, rounded arms all bare, across the back of the great chair, by the window. He did not know; he had not looked; yet he could see her, beautiful, gloriously beautiful in her strange, weird, dark beauty; head poised like a tiger lily upon its stalk; great masses of dead black hair coiled in the disorder that, of her, was order above the low, white forehead; vivid lips parted to reveal the gleam of shining teeth; long, lithe limbs in the easy relaxation that is of the panther, or the leopard.
At length he turned…. She was there. She was as he, unseeing, had seen; as he had known that he should see…. He had ceased to wonder. The Unknown had taught him so much that of the things it had not taught, he had ceased to wonder….
He looked; and looked away. She laughed, a little, lightly. She turned a little, lissomely. He could see the muscles of her straight, slender shape ripple beneath the shimmering black gown.
At length he spoke, roughly, gruffly:
"Well?"
Almost caressingly, she answered:
"Well?"
"So you've come to gaze upon the ruin you have wrought, eh?"
Again she laughed.
"Upon the ruinwehave wrought, My Fool," she corrected.
"Don't call me that," he muttered. "It hurts. It hurts because it's true."
"Most truths hurt," she remarked, smilingly.
"Now," he mumbled, "yes…." And then: "You're satisfied, I hope. She's gone."
"Gone?" It was a pretty inflection—the rising inflection of great surprise. Her eyes, glowing of merriment, belied her lips.
"Gone," he repeated, doggedly. "Gone, and taken the child—my child—our child—with her."
She glided across to where he sat; she leaned over him.
"And you're sorry, I suppose," she asked, mockingly. "Heart-broken!"
"Yes, by God! I am!" he cried, from the soul.
There came from her lips a peal of merry, musical laughter.
"The man of it! Every man wants two women—one to love, and one to respect; one to caress, the other to honor; one to please himself, the other to please his friends. And you're no different from the rest that I have known."
He looked up at her, eye laden of hate, and scorn.
"The rest that you have known!" he retorted, with bitterness, with meaning.
"The rest that I have known," she returned, evenly, lightly.
"Young Parmalee, and Rogers, and Seward Van Dam—and God knows how many more!"
She laughed.
"Jealous, eh? That is as it should be, My Fool." She laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. Roughly he took it, casting it from him.
"Damn you!" he cried. "Let me alone!"
She drew up, stiffly, but speaking softly, said,
"So?"
"I—I didn't mean it that way," he apologized.
"I wonder if you ever spoke that way to her—the other…. You didn't," came from her slowly.
He shook his head.
"No," he replied.
The Woman seated herself upon the arm of his chair, lithely.
"And do you know why?"
Again he shook his head.
"Because you never loved her as you love me. A man is as rough sometimes to the woman he loves as at other times he is sweet." She plucked a scarlet rose from the great cluster that she wore at her breast, dangling it in one white hand, lazily, sensuously.
"You know well of men, don't you," Schuyler remarked, bitterly,
"Well enough" she replied, lightly. "And that is why, when you said, 'Damn you, let me alone!' that I didn't say, 'Damn you!'" she struck him lightly across the face with the scarlet blossom, "and go." Then, with abrupt transition: "That and because I love you."
He laughed, mirthlessly.
"Because you love me!" he cried, his voice all scorn. "Because you love me! Does love then bring disgrace, and ruin, and dishonor upon the object of its lavishment? Does it? Does it?"
She had sunk upon the floor at his feet. Her legs were drawn beneath her; she poised herself upon her supple white arms, looking up at him.
"Sometimes," she returned, evenly. "Even as it brings joy, and ecstasy and happiness untold…. And it does bring that," she purred, sibilantly. "Doesn't it, My Fool?"
He leaned forward, drawing her to him.
"You know it," he cried…. "You know it!"
She saw beginning to glow in the leaden eyes the light that she alone knew how to kindle…. It pleased her…. It pleased her also to blight it at her will. She laughed. She knew as well how to blight as how to kindle. She knew also how to twist a soul in torment; and how to swirl it to the false heaven of unreal joys. For she, of the Unknown, knew much— more, perhaps, than of the known. She said, laughing janglingly:
"But did you ever think, My Fool, that there are different loves?"
He sunk back into his chair. The eyes again were leaden. His head bent. She leaned forward, taking from a vase on the table a nodding white blossom.
"One love," she went on, "is like the white rose—pallid, pale, wistful, weak—a lifeless thing that lies dead against the hand that holds it— that wearies the eye and chills the soul…. The other love is like the red rose—rich, rare, glowing, glorious—that thrills the heart with the joy of living and quickens the blood in the veins until the very soul cries out in the frenzy of its fragrance—a pulsing, throbbing love of body and soul and heart and head, that rushes upon one like a storm at sea, dashing one hither and thither, impotent in its tearing, tossing grip…. That is our love—the Red Love—and it is sweet, is it not, My Fool?"
She bent over him, watching the light again leap to the heavy eyes as he answered:
"Sweet? Sweet as Paradise—a false Paradise, perhaps; but still Paradise! Those days on the Mediterranean, the sea no bluer than the sky that held it in its sunlit hand—and Venice—Venice, with the great, round moon overhead, and the mysterious semi-darkness all about—the splashing of soft waters there beside us and the silent whisper of the lazy oar—and just you and I—alone amid all the glories—side by side—heart in heart— soul in soul." With a great choking sob: "It was sweet, Lady Fair! Sweet!"
The Woman continued:
"And there are two roads through life even as there are two roses. The one is a rough road and weary, and on it happiness seldom treads. It is a plodding road, flat and long; and there you walk with stale and barren people, through a stale and barren land, until you come to an ending yet more stale and more barren than are road or people. That is the road of the White Rose. But the Road of the Red Rose! That's different! On the Road of the Red Rose there is laughter and light, and happiness and joy! Flowers bloom; birds sing. There come the soft wash of the sea—the silent whisper of the breeze—the call of Love!"
She rose lithely to her feet. In one hand she held the bending white blossom; in the other the crimson. Suddenly she thrust them toward him, body bent, lips parted, and cried, sibilantly:
"Which rose do you choose, My Fool? Which Road?"
Roughly he struck from her hand the drooping flower of white. That of red was crushed between them as he seized her in his arms and drew her to him.
"The red rose!" he cried. "And the Red Road! And we'll travel to the end, and beyond!"
[Illustration]
From across the table she was laughing at him, brightly, merrily— laughing to see the havoc that she had wrought in the soul of a man. He turned to her, almost savagely.
"You do love me, Lady Fair, don't you?" he almost pleaded. "You must love me, knowing as you do all that I have given up for you." He pointed to a heap of carelessly-tossed letters upon desk-top. "Do you see those?" he demanded. "The first from Washington—the President—demanding my resignation. Following that, curt requests that I withdraw from positions of trust that I held. My wife crushed—my child disgraced—my friends gone—! God in heaven! What haven't I given you, Lady Fair!"
"I thank you," she responded, most graciously, bending low, "And I have given you what? Myself. Is that less than a fair exchange?"
"Not if I may keep that self mine, and mine alone, for all time. But mayI?"
"Can you doubt it?" she queried, with a lifting of arched brows.
"There was Parmalee—"
"A silly boy. I never cared for him!"
"And Rogers—"
"Interesting—only interesting—and only at first. Then tiresome!"
"And Seward Van Dam."
"Next to you, a man," she cried. "But like you, insanely jealous, and unreasonable."
"And in the end, perhaps," he said slowly, very slowly, "I shall be like him." He sat for a moment, silent. At length he continued: "But if it were to be I, I alone, for all time, could it last—this Red Love of ours? Could it? … Could it?"
She leaned forward.
"Why not?" she asked, lightly. "Why not?"
Leaden eyes were gazing out into nothingness.
"Age comes," he said. His voice was low, and deep, and dead. "The body withers. The brain grows dull. The blood becomes thin. The soul gets weary. And the power to live as once we lived is taken from us. We sit white-haired, blue-veined, drinking in the sun through shrivelled pores to drive the chill from our shrunken frames. It will come to you—to me— to all of us. And neither man, nor God may stop it."
There had come to her face an expression as of a great fear. This man who knew so little, was teaching of that little to her, who knew so much…. At length she swept that fear from her, as one might brush aside the ugly web of a sullen spider…. Again she was the woman who did not know the Known, but only the Unknown.
She asked, lightly:
"Why worry over the years to come when the days that are are ours….There is happiness in the days that are?"
Her voice was very soft. Again dull eyes gleamed; he exclaimed:
"Happiness! I did not dream there could be a happiness like this!"
Her slender arm was about his neck; he could feel the glow of its warmth. Her voice was soothing—infinitely soothing, and musical beyond the telling.
"Then keep a-dreaming, My Fool," she purred, softly. It was almost a whisper. "Keep a-dreaming."
"Would to God I could!" he cried, earnestly. "Would to God I could, forever! The memories of a thousand joys are with me always. Love? What is this love? A golden leaf of happiness floating on the summer seas of life. A silver star of utter joy set in the soft heavens of eternity. A dream that is a reality; a reality that is a dream…. But the storm comes upon the sea. Black clouds blot out the stars. And there can be no dream from which there is no awakening."
"Yet," she cajoled, "while the sea smiles—while the star shines—while we dream—there is happiness to pay for all."
"To pay for all, and more!" Again he turned upon her, swiftly. "Yet in the golden aura of that happiness, there always stand three sodden souls pointing stark fingers at me in ghoulish glee…. Parmalee—Rogers— VanDam…. If I thought—if I for one moment thought—that I should be as they, I'd—"
She stopped him, quickly:
"You'd what, My Fool?"
"I'd kill you where you stand!" he replied, savagely.
She laughed, gaily, clapping soft palms.
"That's the way I love you best, My Fool. It shows spirit, and manhood, and good, red blood—red, like our roses!" She plucked from her breast a handful of scarlet petals, casting them above her head. They fell about them both, a glowing shower. She went on: "How for a moment you could have imagined that you love the woman you call wife—a soft, silly, namby-pamby—"
He was on his feet now, fierce, primal, brutal—all the manhood that was left of him straight and rigid.
"Stop!" he commanded. "Don't you dare say one word against her, or byGod, I'll—"
She interrupted, rising haughtily before him, and said coldly, incisively:
"You forget yourself. You humiliate yourself. You insult me. I'll say what I please of whom I please."
"You'll keep your tongue off her, and off the little one!"
"I'll not if I choose not!"
"You will!"
She laughed. He stood for a moment, poised in anger. Then the momentary flash of righteous wrath was gone. He turned, slowly, from her.
She remarked, lightly, scornfully:
"The man of it, and again the fool of it. You would protect her who has scorned, and flouted, and humiliated you."
"The fault was mine," he flashed. "And you know it; and I know it."
"Then why did you do it?"
He shook his head, eyes again leaden.
"God knows," he whispered.
She stood for a moment; then again laughter rippled from the red lips.
"But why should we quarrel?" she asked, gently. "There are things in life more sweet." She went to him, leaning toward him, beautiful arms extended, lissome body bent.
"A kiss, My Fool," she whispered.
He turned from her.
"No," he cried.
She smiled.
"I said, 'A kiss, My Fool!'" she repeated.
"I heard."
Her eyes were on him…. Slowly he turned…. The set jaw relaxed; the straight limned lips weakened…. He looked at her.
Her lips now were almost upon his own; her eyes were very close to his.Again she whispered; softly, sibilantly, caressingly:
"A kiss, My Fool!"
* * * * *
He thrust her from him.
"You devil!" he cried. "I love you—and I hate you! You are beautiful— and you're ugly! You are sweeter than the last of life—and more bitter than the sodden shame of a secret sin!"
She replied, lightly, arranging the masses of her hair with deft, slender fingers:
"All of which is quite as it should be, My Fool; for the hate makes the love but the more poignant; the ugliness is but a fair setting for the beauty; and sweetness in bitterness is far more sweet than sweetness alone."
Her mood was different now. He had sunk into the great chair. She seated herself upon its arm; her head sunk to his; her cheek against his…. And again he kissed her, on the lips.
[Illustration]
The car stopped before the porte-cochere. Blake alighted. He knew well the way. He did not ring; for the door was unlocked—ajar. Jaw close set— lips but a thin straight line, he made his way down the great, dark, silent hall. He had come to do that which it were hard to do. When one has been the friend of such a man as John Schuyler was—when one has felt toward a man as such a man as John Schuyler must be felt toward—when one has known that man to do the things that he has done—when one has seen the misery—the suffering unutterable that he has caused—the shame beyond depth, the grief beyond measurement—and when she upon whom has been heaped this shame and grief and misery and suffering unutterable is the woman one loves—then it becomes not a little thing to go to that man without murder in one's heart and vengeance in one's soul.
Blake knew where he was most likely to find the man that had been his friend. There he went, thrusting open the broad door. He paused upon the threshold….
The woman, lifted her head…. She moved away from Schuyler, arranging the dead black masses of her hair…. She laughed a little.
Schuyler turned. Eyes again leaden saw Blake.
"You!" he cried.
Blake said no word.
Schuyler laughed, raucously.
"So you, of all, have not decided to flee from the leper."
Blake, looking at him, said, slowly:
"No; I stay behind and stand the stench for the sake of him who was my friend."
"Is the stench then so great that it precludes the common courtesy of announcing your presence?"
Blake made no answer to this.
"I wish to see you alone," he said, simply.
Schuyler half swung from him.
"You may see me as I am." he returned, doggedly.
"And a most damnably unpleasant sight it is."
Schuyler wheeled.
"You go too far," he said, threateningly.
"Too far?" repeated Blake. "Impossible…. I wish to see you alone—if you, and this woman—dare."
She, smiling, bowed, graciously.
"By all means," she agreed, easily.
"No!" cried Schuyler. "Stay where you are."
She shook her head.
"Pray pardon me. I'll wait in the morning room."
Alone, Blake turned and looked at Schuyler. Could it be that this was the man that had been his friend? … It must be; and yet how could it be? There was in his heart a great bitterness. He could not understand….
Schuyler had turned to him.
"Look here, Tom," he began, doggedly, "before you begin, I wish to tell you that it is useless. Nothing that you can say will change me in the slightest. I've made up my mind; and my decision is unalterable."
"Irrevocable, is the word."
"As you will…. I'm sorry if the course I choose doesn't seem right to you—to the world—sometimes even to myself—and I'll confess to you that it doesn't—But, right, or wrong, it's the only one for me, and I must take it—must, whether I will or not. So, if you've come for a cigar and a chat, well and good. But if for anything else, go and avoid trouble."
"I'm looking for trouble," returned Blake, quietly. He advanced to the table and leaned against it. "Jack," he exclaimed, "you're a damned fool. There was some excuse for the others. Parmalee was a kid—Rogers an old fool—Van Dam—well, absinthe and asininity account for him. And they fell to their fooldom without warning to guard them or precedent to shield them. But you—open-eyed, knowing everything—forewarned and forearmed,—walk fatuously to your doom as one sheep follows another over a precipice. I swear I can't even yet believe that it isn't all a dream. I keep pinching myself and saying to myself that in the morning I'll wake up and go around and tell old Jack all about it as being a good joke. It's an uncanny, filthy sort of a nightmare as it stands, however." He turned to the other; Schuyler was striding up and down the room. "Old man," he pleaded, quietly, "what's the answer?"
Schuyler stopped in his walk. Looking at Blake, he remarked:
"You've never loved. You couldn't know."
"Never loved!" cried Blake, scornfully. "Couldn't know! Hell! You make me tired! What do you mean by debauching and degrading a good, pure word like love by applying it to this snaky, bestial fascination of yours. You're a fool!"
Schuyler advanced upon him, threateningly.
"Don't you call me that, too," he said, tensely.
Blake paid no heed.
"Love!" he cried, disgustedly. "This sordid, sodden passion of yours love! Love lives only where there is sympathy, and respect, and mutual understanding. Do you mean to tell me that you have any respect for this woman? You know well you haven't a bit more respect for her than she has for you, and that's none. Do you mean to tell me there's any sympathy between you? No more than there is between a snake and a bird. And you aren't capable of understanding her any more than she is of understanding you. Love! It's lust! And you know it!"
Schuyler had dropped into a chair. Blake finished. He swung toward him.
"Go on!" he almost hissed, through clenched teeth. "Go on! If you can tell me anything that I haven't told myself, I'd like to hear it. Tell me what you think. Tell me what everyone thinks. Put into words the scorn and contempt that I see in every eye that looks into mine—in every mirror that I look into. Go on! Tell me something else! But let me tell you one thing! When Destiny can't get a man any other way, she sends a woman for him…. And the woman gets him."
Blake looked at him.
"'A fool there was';" he quoted. Schuyler interrupted.
"Stop!" he commanded. "Don't you suppose I know that thing by heart— every syllable—every letter of it? Don't you suppose I know what it means—all that it means—better than you can ever know?" He struck his forehead with clenched fist. "Tell me the things that lie here!" his voice was almost a scream. "The things that lie here, and burn, and burn, and burn! Tell me the things that lie here!" He struck his forehead again.
"I'll tell you this," said Blake, voice cold, and ringing. "It was written for you by a man who knew you; and you'll listen."
"No!" protested Schuyler. He started to rise from his chair. But Blake, catching him by the shoulders, thrust him back, holding him pinioned. "You fool," he remarked, bitterly. "You poor, pitiful, puling fool! 'Honor, and faith, and a sure intent'—a wife, a child, a reputation, a character. 'Stripped to his foolish hide,' the poem reads. But you're stripped to your naked, sodden skeleton. If I weren't so sorry for you, I could cut your throat. When I think of the little girl—calling you daddy—honoring you—loving you—and of what you've done for her! When I think of your wife—of the woman who went through the pains of childbirth for you—who held you sacred in that great, loving, glorious heart of hers—who gave, and gave, and gave asking only that there might be the more to give—You say that maybe I don't know what love is. Well, maybe I don't—and maybe I do. There are some things that a man may not tell his best friend—there are some things that a man may not even tell himself. But I'm different from you, thank God, and I love differently."
He moved back. Schuyler remained seated. Leaden eyes had in them now a new light—the light of suffering refined. Blake commanded:
"Stand up. Look me in the eye, as man to man—if you can."
Swiftly Schuyler rose to his feet. The two men stood face to face, eye to eye.
"Now," cried Blake, hope in his heart—hope ringing in his voice, "will you be a man, or a thing that earth, nor heaven, nor even hell has room for?"
[Illustration]
Came from the door of the morning room a light, ringing, musical laugh. The woman stood there, white arms extended above her head, hands resting on door sides.
Schuyler fell back a step. Blake turned.
Again she laughed, lightly, ripplingly. And then:
"What a splendid revivalist was lost to the world when your friend became a mere broker!" And to Blake: "Why once or twice I myself became almost enthusiastic. Really, sir, you are a most convincing speaker—though if you will pardon a well-meant criticism, your low tones are a bit harsh."
There was in Blake's heart a great bitterness. When first he had come to see the man that had been his friend, there had been in his breast but little hope. Later, however, he had understood better; and there had awakened within him an idea that perhaps, after all, it was not too late— and then had come confidence, and the desire to fight. And he had fought. He had almost won. But now, he knew that he had lost; for in Schuyler's eyes he saw dull, hopeless docility, and in The Woman's, conscious power and strength beyond measure.
He turned. He looked at this woman who was his foe—his victor.
Slowly he said:
"There is supposed to be honor among thieves. Apparently there is none among libertines."
He took his hat from where it lay amid the confusion of the table. He bowed, first to the woman, then to Schuyler. He was a proud man—a strong man. It hurt him to lose—and the more because the stake had been so great…. He passed across the room, and through the door, closing it behind him.
Upon the woman, still laughing in the delight of her success, Schuyler rounded. There was in his heart, too, a great bitterness—a great hurt. For he, too, realized how near he had been to salvation—and that realization made the present distance seem yet greater than ever before; and God alone knew how great that was.
"I hope you're satisfied," he remarked, dully. "Now even he has gone.You've broken the last link that bound me to the life that was."
Again she laughed, ringingly, merrily.
Then the greatness of his wrath obsessed him.
"Laugh!" he cried, wildly. "Laugh at your fool!—the helpless, spineless, soulless fool who does your bidding even to the depths of hell! Laugh! … Laugh! …" Suddenly, his body seemed to wither. He leaned weakly against the back of the great chair…. His head sunk slowly upon his arms….
There came suddenly from the stairway a little, delighted, cry in childish treble.
"Daddy! Daddy, dear!"
Schuyler, head buried, thought at first that it was but within himself that he heard—that it was that other sense—that unknown sense—that had called him…. The cry came again…. Slowly he raised his head, and looked….