Fool There Was — Again the Battle; The Pity of it All
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.
AGAIN THE BATTLE.
Schuyler staggered, stumbled to his feet, thin hands clutching for support at chair arm.
"You struck me!"
he mumbled, savagely.
"You struck me.
You'll fight me-- fight me!"
He lifted weakly, balancing himself upon unsteady, weakened legs.
Blake, stepping back, found his hand against a glass of water.
He seized it-- advanced a step--and cast the contents of the glass full into Schuyler's contorting face....
Schuyler slowly came to himself.
The shock of the blows--of the words-- and finally of the water against his head, sent the blood to his brain-- banished the liquor, and the dementia, from it....
A weakened, miserable, pitiful imitation he was of the John Schuyler that had been.
Yet it was John Schuyler that sat slumped into the chair, gazing up at the friend who had proven his friendship so often and so well.
Schuyler sat for a moment, eyes blinking.
At length his hand went forth, slowly.
"Hello, Tom," he said.
"I'm glad to see you."
Puzzled eyes went about the room, eyes expanding, contracting, like those of a man who, having been long asleep, awakens to find himself in a place unfamiliar.
Blake went to him, leaning over him.
"You can understand me now?"
he asked, tensely.
Schuyler looked up.
"Why, yes," he replied.
"Of course, Tom.
Of course I can understand you."
Eyes again sought to solve the mystery of the room; for from the mind cleared had fled all memories of the mind uncleared.
Blake cried: "You are coming away with us, Jack--away from this hell-snake of yours!
You're coming today--now!
Do you understand?"
Schuyler nodded.
"Yes," he said.
"I understand."
In his mind the real and the unreal were clarifying into an accurate whole.
He nodded again.
"There's still a chance for you, Jack."
Blake continued, earnestly, all his force in his words.
"There's still a chance for you.
You're going to be strong, and become a man again!
Tell me that you will!"
"It's too late, Tom," he replied.
There was in the words sadness, despair, hopelessness unutterable.
"It's too late.
Body, mind, soul are wasted, gone.
There's no chance, Tom.
It's too late!"
"No!"
cried Blake!
"There is happiness for you--real happiness--the right happiness!
Your wife--your child--" "Don't speak of them," Schuyler moaned.
"Don't!
...
Don't!"
"You must think of them, Jack.
It's there that salvation lies.
Think of the true woman--the wife who loves you.
Think of the little one who used to put baby hands around your neck and try to tell you all the beautiful things that only children know.
That is what will save you now, Jack--and only that!
Think....
Think!"
"It's too late, Tom!"
"It's not too late!"
"You're sure?
Quite, quite sure?"
"I'm sure, Jack!"
There was a pause.
Schuyler rose.
He thrust forth his hand.
Blake took it, gripping it in his own.
"I'll go, Tom.
I'll go."
Came to him a touch of that from which he had been able to withdraw so pitifully little.
"We'll fool her yet, won't we?"
he asked, breathlessly.
"We'll fool her, and Young Parmalee, and Rogers, and Van Dam and the rest of them.
Let's go now, Tom.
Take me away!
For the love of God who has forsaken me--whom I have forsaken--take me away!
Save me from her--from myself--My blood has turned to water, and my bones to chalk!
My brain has withered!
Good God!
What has come over me!
To think that I, who could once look in the eye all men, all women, all little children, should have come to this.
Look at me!
A fool in his drunken Palace of Folly!
Dust, dirt, grime, filth all about me--in my home--in my soul!
...
I thought it was too late, Tom.
I thought from the beginning it was too late.
The shame, the disgrace, the loss of honor--of everything, were new to me.
I couldn't understand.
Then I cursed myself.
I swore to God that I wouldn't become the thing I am.
But He didn't help me; and I couldn't help myself.
I
tried!
Ah, how I tried!
But there was something--her eyes, it was--eyes that burnt and seared!
--I tried to kill myself, as Parmalee did.
I
couldn't....
And the only forgetfulness lay in drink--drink that sapped my strength and drained my veins and shrivelled my brain.
Tell me it's a dream, Tom--that it's all but a vile, horrible, grewsome dream!
Tell me that I'm the kind of a man you are!
the kind of a man I once was!
And don't hate me, Tom.
Don't loathe, and despise me, all; but pity me a little--just a little!"
He had sunk in a huddled heap to the floor, weak, hysterical--a half- crazed soul in the white-hot crucible of suffering.
Blake leaned over him, gently, and lifting him, helped him to the great chair.
There was a great, unselfish gladness in his heart.
But that gladness had changed swiftly to horror.
He stood back aghast.
For there had entered the room Kathryn, and Muriel.
The horror of it all did not show in the eyes of the wife.
She would not let it.
The child, all gladness, ran to her father; she did not notice.
"Daddy!
Oh, daddy!"
she called.
Schuyler, a huddled heap by the desk, straightened, weakly.
"You!"
he cried, brokenly.
Tears welled to his eyes.
He seized--the little form in his arms, clutching it to him.
Blake turned to Kathryn.
"You should not have come," he said.
He was sorry for the hurt he knew she suffered.
"My place is here."
She went to Schuyler, stooping over him.
"Jack, dear."
She spoke, very quietly.
He lifted his eyes, dim, moist.
His lips worked.
"Oh, daddy!"
exclaimed the child.
"You've been ill!
You look awful!"
He bent his head.
"Yes, little sweetheart," he answered, in shaking tone, "very ill.
God grant you may never know how ill."
"But you're most well, now, aren't you daddy?"
she asked, brightly.
"I hope so," he replied.
"Ah, how I hope so."
Lips and voice both quivered, now.
"And we can play horsie?"
she asked.
"Yes," he assented.
He essayed to lift her; but even the tiny weight of the little form was too much for his shattered strength.
His head sunk upon the table, arm-buried.
His body shook.
The child did not see; which was well.
She was looking at her mother.
"Mother, dear," she said reproachfully.
"You forgot to kiss daddy."
"Did I?
I'm sorry."
Willingly Kathryn went to him.
He raised thin, white hand in protest.
"Not now," he murmured, brokenly.
"It's not fair--not right!"
The situation was hard--hard for all--no less hard for her than for him-- no less hard for Blake than for either.
He stepped forward, forcing a lightness of tone and of word that lay farthest from his thought.
He laid his hand lightly on Schuyler's shoulder.
"Come, Jack," he said crisply.
"It's quite all right.
There's no cause for anything but gladness.
I'll see them to the hotel, and come back for you."
Schuyler clutched at his strong fingers.
"Don't be long, Tom," he begged, whispering.
"Only a moment," returned Blake, so low that only he might hear.
Blake knew that he needed time to regain his self-command.
He took Muriel by the hand.
"Come, Kate," he suggested.
Kathryn shook her head.
"Leave us for a moment," she urged.
"Do you think it best?"
She bent her head.
Taking the child, Blake left the room.
And slowly Kathryn again went to Schuyler's side.
"John, dear," she said, softly.
His head fell again to his hands.
"I can bear no more, Kathryn," he whispered, weakly.
"Oh, God, how great is Thy goodness!
The shame of it all!
The shame!
The utter, utter shame!
...
And you, Kathryn, can forgive!"
"I can forgive, John, dear.
I do forgive.
It was not your fault.
Is it the fault of the bird that he goes to his death when the eyes of the snake are upon him?
It was not that you were weak, even; it was that-- she was strong, strong in the one way in which she leads.
I do forgive-- forgive and understand."
[Illustration: I DO FORGIVE--FORGIVE AND UNDERSTAND] "You are good beyond all goodness," he murmured, voice low, vibrant.
"No," she said.
She smiled a smile that was no smile.
And then: "It's been a dream, John--a bitter, bitter dream.
But we are awake, now--awake at last.
And we'll never dream again--never."
She rose.
Violet eyes were moist.
She turned away, a little, that he might not see.
Her voice was lighter as she asked: "John, dear.
Don't you want me to stay and help you?"
He shook his head.
"Go, Kathryn," he requested.
"Go with Tom.
It will be more merciful to both of us.
And I want to be alone--to try to realize that the chance is mine to redeem myself.
I want to ask God to try to forgive me, and, in His infinite mercy, to help me atone for all the wrong I've done you."
She bent her head.
It was bitterly hard for her, as for him.
She knew, as he said, it would be more merciful to them both that she should go.
Gently she bent.
Her lips touched his bowed head.
Slowly she turned.
Slowly she walked across the dirty, disordered room.
She looked back, once.
He was still sitting there, head buried deep in hands....
She was glad, glad unselfishly.
She could give him happiness.
Would there ever be happiness for her?
She was afraid....
Yet she was glad--glad as Blake was glad--Still there was in her a great, great emptiness.
[Illustration] CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.
THE PITY OF IT ALL.
Left alone, John Schuyler sat for long, never-ending moments.
He was weak--weak unto the weakness of death.
His soul was torn and tossed and twitched within him.
At length he rose, slowly, to his feet.
A dizziness-- a nausea--overmastered him.
He reached for the bottle on the table top.
As he did so, his foot touched some object upon the floor....
He looked down.
It was a bit of broken mirror....
He stooped and picked it up.
The light upon the table was on.
He turned it so that it might illumine with its merciless rays the last cruel line upon his face....
Slowly, holding the mirror so that eyes might see, he looked....
He fell to his knees....
This thing that he saw was he!
He!
John Schuyler!
Came to him at length strength to rise.
Came to his heart great resolves.
He would make atonement to the woman whom he had forsaken--the woman who had not forsaken him.
He would make atonement in as far as it lay within possibility--and to the child that was of him and of her he would make atonement.
He was but a young man; many years of life should lie before him; and of these years he would give, give all, and ask nothing.
It was the sad wreck of a life that lay before him--a stinking, noisome wreck-- yet there must be something in it that was neither foul nor unsightly.
That thing he would find.
He set his jaw.
Leaden eyes became bright....
Then, he was near to being a man....
He had started toward the door, to leave forever the scene of his moral, mental, spiritual death--he was almost to the portal--another step would carry him through, and beyond-- She stood there.
Red lips were parted in a little, inscrutable smile.
White shoulders shimmered.
Lithe muscles rippled beneath her gown with every movement of her delicate body.
She was beautiful--beautiful as an animal is beautiful.
And her eyes were upon his.
He staggered back, clutching at the door jamb for support.
She laughed a little, lightly: "Just in time.
You're going away.
Bien.
I trust you may have a very pleasant journey."
She swung into the room, lithely, eyes upon him, vivid lips smiling.
Rounded arms were clasped behind lissome back.
"And if I hadn't gone," he inquired, "you were about to go?"
She nodded.
"To another fool?"
She shook her head, merrily.
"Oh, no," she replied, red lips pursed.
"To a man--this time."
He shrunk a little.
The madness was not far behind.
"Well, squeeze him dry," he muttered.
"Squeeze the honor and the manhood and the life and the soul out of him, won't you?
And then Parmalee, and Rogers, and Van Dam will laugh at him from their hole in hell.
And I'll laugh at all of you; for I'll be safe from you all.
So squeeze him dry, won't you, you Vampire!"
Again she laughed, gaily.
He was very amusing, at times--this thing that had been a man.
She slid to the desk, seating herself upon it, swinging small, perfectly shod feet with slender silk-clad ankles.
"So it's all over," she remarked, musingly.
"Yet it was sweet while it lasted, wasn't it, My Fool?
--sometimes."
She tossed at him contemptuously a glowing crimson blossom which she ripped from the great mass at her rounded breast.
She went on: "Those days on the Mediterranean, under the blue skies.
And Venice, with the dim silence all about, and the soft night breezes whispering their strange secrets to us as we lay side by side under the rustling canopy-- very romantic, for dreamers--and we did dream--didn't we, My Fool?
--at least, you did."
She laughed again; again she cast at him a crimson blossom, maliciously, tantalizingly.
"And Paris.
That was good, too-- differently.
The gay crowds on the Bois, and the races at Longchamps, and the little place in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs--and Saint Antoine, in the Norman hills--and the fuss they made over the newly-wedded couple!
It was while we were there, if you will remember, Fool," she went on, in voice caressing but words that stung, "on the morning that we first had breakfast under the grape arbor, with its young green leaves and nodding promises of luscious yield, that there came the letter from your wife."
She laughed, long and merrily.
He cried, hoarsely: "Stop!
Damn you, stop!
You've tortured me enough!"
