Fool There Was — The Battle; Defeat
THE BATTLE.
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] CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.
DEFEAT.
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....
A great, cold clutch tore his heart.
His veins stiffened.
His head reeled.
He staggered, back, clutching for support, at the chair.
Even this had come to him!
It was she--his daughter--the child of his wife, and of himself--the child that had been his to love when still he had been man.
The little one was scampering down the stairs, tiny feet pattering upon thick carpet.
Her eyes were dancing; her lips smiling; there was in her the great, unequivocating, unquestioning gladness of the young.
"Daddy!"
she cried, again, all delight.
"Daddy, dear!"
He hesitated....
Then swiftly he ran to her, seizing her in eager, thrilling arms, hiding her face against his breast, that she might not see--Yet was it too late.
"Oh, what a beautiful lady, daddy!"
cried the little one.
"Who is she?"
He gasped.
He choked.
He could not answer....
The woman stood looking on, smiling--still smiling.
At length he found words: "How did you come here, little sweetheart?"
he asked.
"I runned away," she returned.
"I was in the Park, with Mawkins.
I left her while she was talking to a p'liceman....
Oh, daddy, dear!
When are we coming home?
I miss you so much!"
The woman moved forward, eyes upon the kneeling, soul-torn man; and upon the little child that was his.
"Another advocate!"
she said.
"It has been skilfully planned."
"What does she mean, daddy?"
queried the child.
He answered, quickly: "Nothing, dearie."
The woman stepped forward.
He hurriedly drew the child from her....
Again she smiled, a little....
There were some things that she understood, that were of the Known.
The child was speaking: "And, daddy," she said, "mother dear isn't a bit well.
Mawkins and I are dreadfully worried about her."
"What's the matter with mother?"
he asked, quickly.
"Tell me!"
The child shook her head.
"She cries most all the time," she replied.
"And when I ask her what the matter is, she just shakes her head and says, 'Nothing, dearie.
Mother's tired.'
But people don't cry because they're tired, do they, daddy?"
He did not answer.
Head sunk in hands, the bitterness of it all--the awful, ghastly, horror of the things that he had done--was obsessing him body and soul and brain and heart.
The fires of the uttermost hell were flaring through his very being.
Then it was that the woman beckoned to the child of the man that belonged to her.
"Come here, dear," she said, voice modulated.
The man might not hear yet.
The child hesitated.
"I'd rather not," she replied.
The woman bent forward, swiftly, undulatingly, as a snake strikes.
She seized the child, clasping her to her.
And once, twice, thrice, she kissed her, on the lips....
The man awoke.
He staggered to his feet....
Through the door came Blake.
He, too, saw; and while he did not understand all, he understood enough.
Across the room he sprang.
He tore the child from the now yielding arms of the woman!
Holding tight against him the little one that he loved as his own, he turned savagely upon the man who had once been his friend.
"To think that any human thing could sink so low!"
he almost hissed....
And he was gone, taking with him the child he loved.
It is safe to play with a soul just so far--sometimes it is safe to play even farther, when one really knows one's strength....
The woman had possibly overestimated her prowess--and yet possibly she had not--it were hard to tell of one who knows the things that we do not--who does not know the things that we do.
There was manhood, and honor, and decency in Schuyler yet--a little, of a sort.
He struck her in the face--full upon the vivid, crimson lips--and a little of their crimson seemed to leave its lair.
It trickled down upon the dead whiteness of her skin....
But she still smiled.
Her white arms went forth languorously.
Her lithe, slender, beautiful body undulated.
Her eyes were on his....
She still smiled....
Again he struck her....
Still she smiled....
Her eyes looked into his.
He raised his hand to strike again....
The hand did not fall....
Her eyes were on his; and she still smiled....
She gauged her power well.
Perhaps, at times, she flattered it, a little--but never much....
She still smiled....
Perhaps, it was that which she desired.
It were hard to tell.
For, after all....
[Illustration]
