Fool There Was — The Shroud of a Soul; The Thing That Was a Man
THE SHROUD OF A SOUL.
It had been arranged that Blake, again, was to go to him first.
Little had been heard of John Schuyler, of late.
A drop to desuetude may of its last half be far more silent than of its first.
One gathers momentum, as one descends, whether the descent be physical, or moral.
At the inception comes the gradual slipping--the vast, frantic effort to stay that slipping--the exertion, the hysteria, the fright, the remorse, the stretching out of hands to aid and of souls to help....
Then, things become different.
There comes a vast silence.
The hands draw back; the souls are hidden; and when Hope itself lifts its pinions and soars away, then there be little left indeed.
John Schuyler, deserted of friends, deprived of all usefulness in the life that he had loved, found it to be so; and, finding, tried to think no more....
If only the Great God would take from him his brain!
...
But He did not....
All were gone from him now save She--The Woman.
The doctor came occasionally when summoned by Parks--Parks who had known and loved in other days.
And the coming of the doctor, and of Her, were the only things that marked the beginning of the days, and the ending thereof.
He lived in the study a part of the time, a part of the time in his rooms.
The rest of the house knew him not; and the great out-of-doors, even in its warrenated streets of the city, but seldom.
And from the study, at least, all save She were excluded.
He had been worse that day--much worse.
Parks had stayed indoors all day, listening.
As night came on, he had become frightened.
The telephone in the hall had been out of order; and he had taken upon himself the liberty of entering the forbidden demesne; for the doctor must be called.
The door of the library-study creaked as he opened it....
He stopped upon the threshold, aghast.
This could not be the same room that he had seen so short a time before.
He looked about him, in horrified disbelief.
Before him there lay the very essence of dirt and disorder.
Furniture was broken, overturned.
Rugs were askew, wrinkled.
The desk, upbearing broken bottles and a cluttered mess of paper, letter and debris of all description, was scratched and dented.
Pictures sagged drunkenly upon the walls; hangings were torn, and draggled, and over all lay a pall of dust, dank, choking.
Slowly, dreadingly, horror gripping his heart, Parks crossed the room to the desk.
He picked up the telephone from where it rested amid the litter and placed the receiver to his ear.
The voice of the operator came to him across the wire.
"Hello," he called, "Give me 2290 Plaza, please."
At length there came to him an answer.
He inquired: "Is this Dr. Grenelle's office?"
It was the doctor himself.
"This is Parks--Mr. Schuyler's secretary....
He is worse--much worse....
You had better send someone to take care of him.
I am going away....
Yes, that's all.
Goodbye."
Hanging up the receiver, Parks sought amid the confusion of the desk for a sheet of paper, and envelope.
At length he found them; but the pens on the desk were beyond use, and the ink-stands dried and dusty.
It had taken Parks a long time to come to the decision that he should leave this house.
Long, and faithfully, and well had he served John Schuyler.
He had served him gladly, and given of his best.
And, until It had come, had he received besides generous pecuniary rewards, the more grateful compensation of pleasant treatment, consideration, good- fellowship, friendliness.
He could not have cared more for John Schuyler had he been of kin to him....
But the disintegration of a man's soul, and brain, and body, is not a pleasant thing to watch.
It had come to a place where Parks, in his heart, felt that he could do no more.
For the rest, there was nothing to detain him longer.
At first Parks, as most, had come to think that the man was innately a libertine, awaiting but the right one to strike the hidden flint and set the tinder aglow--the tinder that would burn, and consume, and destroy.
He had known of men like that--of men who went the even pathway of their lives until there crossed it another who tore them from it; and that one they followed, leaving soul and morals and decency and cleanliness forever behind them.
This, at first, he had thought to be John Schuyler.
For the woman was beautiful--beautiful as an animal is beautiful....
But then he had not been so sure.
His confidence had been shaken; for she had looked into his eyes, too, playfully; and he had felt his very being rock upon its foundation, and he had slunk away, chilled, helpless, horror- ridden....
After that he had avoided her.
She had paid no attention to him....
So the anger--the disgust--the resentment that at first he had felt had at length been altered to sorrow, and grief, and pity beyond utterance Yet there had been nothing that he could do--nothing....
He could not sleep, of nights....
It was killing him, too....
Upon the soiled, rumpled sheet he wrote....
Came a noise behind him.
He looked up, quickly, frightenedly....
It was Blake; and quick relief sprang to the clean-cut face.
But the horror of it was in Blake's. Even as had Parks', his eyes wandered dreadingly about the room.
The horror of it all was in his soul, too....
For a long time he said no word.
He only looked.
He thrust the curtains aside....
The dust, impalpable, strangling, fell about him ....
"Good God!"
he muttered.
"Good God in heaven!"
He saw Parks.
"Has it been like this for long?"
he asked.
Parks shook his head.
"I don't know," he answered....
And then: "It must have been.
The servants are all gone."
"Servants gone?"
"Yes; there's been no one below stairs for a fortnight.
They irritated him, and he discharged them, one and all."
"His valet?"
"Went last night.
I go to-morrow....
To have known him as he was--and then to see him as he is--I couldn't stand it any longer."
There was a pause.
Blake looked about him.
At length he spoke: "Does--she come here, now?"
"Seldom.
No one else ever comes.
It's a lonely place, sir--frightfully lonely."
"And he?"
"Drink, if you will pardon me--and remorse.
He seems bent only upon forgetting everything.
Try as I will I can't keep the brandy from him.
All day--all night--he drinks, and drinks, and tries to forget."
Blake nodded.
"I see."
Parks continued: "At first it made him drunk, and he slept.
But now it seems only to numb his senses.
I hear him all through the night muttering--muttering.
I hear him cursing himself--cursing everything, everybody--cursing her--that woman--then calling to her--calling--calling--It's horrible!"
Blake again nodded.
"I had heard," he said.
"But I didn't dream it was as bad as this....
It is too late, then, you think--too late to do anything?
I had thought that if we should wait--until she was tired--as such as she must tire sooner or later--" "Too late?"
repeated Park.
"It has always been too late.
It was too late from the first.
I was with him, you know."
"Yes--abroad.
I had forgotten."
Parks exclaimed, almost fiercely: "I wish to God I could!
He was a man, sir--a man!"
Then, in quick transition: "I beg your pardon.
But I was very fond of him."
He placed the resignation that he had written fair in the center of the desk.
He turned to go.
Blake called after him: "You are leaving?"
Parks nodded.
"Don't you think you'd better stay a little longer?
You can help him."
Parks shook his head; there was in his voice a great sadness.
"No one can help him now.
It is too late....
Too late."
[Illustration] CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.
THE THING THAT WAS A MAN.
Schuyler came down the stairs slowly, leaning heavily against the broken balustrade.
He laughed a little, wildly, with the mirthless chill that is of a maniac.
His knees bent; he staggered....
And he laughed again....
At first Blake did not know him....
Then, knowing, he could not believe that his eyes brought to his brain the truth....
This was not John Schuyler.
It could not be John Schuyler.
It was not possible.
John Schuyler was at least a man--not a palsied, pallid, shrunken, shriveled caricature of something that had once been human....
John Schuyler had hands--not nerveless, shaking talons....
This sunken-eyed, sunken- cheeked, wrinkled thing was not John Schuyler--this thing that crawled, quiveringly--from the loose, pendulous lips of which came mirth that was more bitter to hear than the sobs of a soul condemned.
Blake's soul was curdled; his senses were numbed; but still his eyes could look.
The ghastly figure stopped in the moonlight, at the landing of the stairs.
White, claw-like hand clutched at the drunken curtain and ripped it from its fastenings.
The pale light of the moon fell harsh upon it....
Blake shut his eyes....
When again he looked, the figure was at the desk, fumbling with a key....
A drawer screeched in protest.
Came from it a rattling as a cadaverous hand drew forth a bottle....
And the thing that had been John Schuyler guzzled.
It laughed again, then, in hollow, mad glee.
It staggered forward.
Its hollow eyes fell upon the letter that Parks had left.
Clutching fingers unsteadily tore end from envelope--drew letter from covering, and hollow, leaden eyes gazed.
Came another wild burst of laughter gone mad.
A voice, thick, weak, muffled, weird, said: "Another enveloped insult.
From Parks, the good and faithful Parks."
Dull eyes read.
"Your employment has become impossible."
The letter fell to the floor; the voice cried: "The rats desert the sinking ship!"
It chuckled: "Wise rats.
Sensible rats!"
And then dead eyes saw the man who stood before him.
"You?"
They peered, like those of a fish.
"Good!
I'm glad to see you, even though you have come to scorn, and abuse, and hate.
It's a lonely hell, this--lonely."
Blake answered, bitterness in his soul: "I did not come because I wanted to.
It was to prevent her coming--the wife who loved you, and who, God help her, loves you still.
She would make one last effort to save you."
Schuyler laughed again.
"There's nothing left to save," he chuckled.
"I know; but I'll try for her sake."
Schuyler lurched into a chair.
In ghastly playfulness he looked upon the other.
"Try, then," he cackled.
"You did so well last time, that you've come to try again, eh?
Well, you've come too late.
Do you remember Parmalee--the boy who killed himself?
The boy that I called a fool?"
He laughed, sardonically.
"He's got me now--he, and Van Dam, and Rogers--three damned fools scorching in a hole in hell....
'A fool there was'" he quoted;
then, stopping, suddenly, he half rose, weakly, to his feet.
"Listen!"
he cried.
There came utter silence.
"Did you hear?"
he queried, triumphantly.
"Did you hear her calling?"
It was more than Blake could bear.
"Jack!"
he cried, tensely.
"Jack!"
Schuyler rounded on him.
"Don't call me that!"
he said, petulantly.
"Call me _the Fool_."
Blake shook his head, in the gripping horror of it all.
"It makes me sick," he murmured, to himself, "sick at heart!"
Schuyler had heard.
"It makes me sick, too," he cackled.
He pointed to the shattered mirror, above the mantel.
"Do you see that?"
he demanded.
"There isn't a whole one in the house.
I don't dare to look at myself."
Came to Blake's mind now, stricken and wracked as it had been, by that which he had seen, a glimmer of hope.
He had heard of men like this who had come back to life--to reason.
It might be fever--fever and drink; and it might be that the fever could be stayed--the drink conquered.
John Schuyler had been a strong man.
Surely it could not be that in so short a time he had been dragged to the grave's very edge.
Lack of attention, lack of care, lack of medicine and nursing and discipline were probably largely responsible.
The man might be awakened--brought to himself.
It might be possible-- Speculatively, not realizing that he spoke aloud, he asked of himself: "Is there a chance left?
Is there one little chance left, to save him?"
Again Schuyler had heard.
"What would be the use?"
he queried, dully.
The liquor was passing.
"What is there left of me to save?
I'm a husk--squeezed dry.
I'm a memory--a nightmare.
They are calling me--Young Parmalee, Rogers, Seward Van Dam.
I
drink to them, now, even as they drink to me--scorching in their hole in hell!"
He rose weakly to his feet, raising a dirty glass in which splashed a little amber liquor.
Came to Blake the thought that, even though Schuyler could not be redeemed to manhood, he might at least, be saved from death, or worse.
He might at least be made again into the semblance of that which he had been.
He started forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk, face close to Schuyler's own.
"Jack!"
he cried, commandingly.
"Look here!
I want to talk to you!"
Schuyler slumped again into the depths of his chair.
He looked up, dully.
"Yes?"
"Listen!"
Blake demanded.
"Listen closely.
There's a chance for you yet!
We'll take you away somewhere--for a year--five years--ten years.
You can change your name--make a new start--build yourself a new character--a new honor.
There's still happiness for you, Jack!
We'll go and find it!
Come!
Shall we?"
Schuyler answered, dully, with the petulance of the mentally unfit: "It's too late, I tell you--too late!"
"It's not too late!
You'll try!
Come!"
"It's too late, I say!"
insisted Schuyler, thickly.
"She's torn from me everything that makes life worth living.
She's taken honor and manhood and self-respect--wife and child and friends--everything--everything but-- this!"
He patted the bare bottle before him.
And then: "Let's drink," he muttered.
Blake sprang forward, desperation overwhelming him.
"My God, this is awful!"
he exclaimed.
"Haven't you a spark of manhood left?
no brains?
no bowels?
nothing a man can appeal to?"
Schuyler repeated, dully: "Give me that bottle!"
It was then that Blake came to that which he had mentally intended to be a last resort.
Deliberately, not in anger, but in the desperation of a strong man who plays his last card for his ultimate stake, he leaned across the table and deliberately struck Schuyler in the face.
It was a hard thing to do; but there are things that so demand.
Blake knew that if this time he failed to arouse whatever of latent, atrophied manhood there might be in the breast of the other, that never again, probably, would the shrivelling brain come within call.
So he struck; and, following the staggering form, struck again, flat on the face, with open hand, hard, stinging blows.
And with these blows he cried, tensely: "If there's any spirit left in you, I'll arouse it.
You pitiful thing that was once a man!
You made in God's image?
Why, there isn't a swine that wouldn't be ashamed to roll in the same gutter with you!"
With stinging words and stinging blows, he pursued the stumbling figure across the room.
Schuyler fell.
Blake kicked him, sending foot against body, heavily.
"Get up, you beast!"
he ordered.
And then, in the horror of it all--in the awful of horror of the hurt of the thing that he was doing: "Great God!
Will nothing awaken you?"
Schuyler was scrambling weakly to his feet.
In dulled eyes there was a little gleam--the little gleam that Blake had tried so hard, so horribly, to bring.
The slobbering lip had set a little and the loose, lax jaw....
There was there the shadow of the John Schuyler that was....
Blake stepped back, gladness in his heart.
He had called him back so far.
He would call him back the rest!
[Illustration]
