Fool There Was — A Warning; The Beginning
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
A WARNING.
The storm that had come hissing across the Sound did not last long.
Its very fierceness, it seemed, was its own undoing.
Its frenzy soon passed.
And anon the sun shone; the drooping flowers raised to it pitiful, bedraggled little faces; and from the fields, rose the burden of incense, moist, fragrant giving wet thanks of its coming and of its going.
Schuyler's farewells had been but tentative.
It had been understood that, should the storm abate, Mrs. Schuyler, Muriel and Blake would follow on the next train; for he himself was forced by the exigency of his mission to reach the city at least two hours before sailing time.
The car, returning from the trip to the depot, was again called into service.
Parks, as well, had waited, and went with them.
Reaching the city, Blake's machine, for which he had telephoned from Larchmont, was waiting; and in this they made the journey through the traffic-thronged New York streets, to the dock; a route that leads one from wealth to poverty, from respectability to license, from well--doing to ill-doing, and through all that lies between.
The dock, beside which lay tugging at her cables the huge liner, was confusion thrice confused.
Jolting cabs, rattling taxis, smooth-running private cars, drays and vans, added to the tumult caused by the hundred-- the thousands--of hurrying, scurrying humanity.
Came the calls of excited passengers, the rumbling of trucks, the Babel-like voices of emigrants;
and, beyond, the noises of the Great River.
Alighting from the car at the gangway, they boarded the ship, with its crowded decks.
Schuyler's stateroom was aft, in the center of the ship.
It lay the first door to the right, as one enters the narrow passageway.
To it the little party made its way.
The door of the room opposite was ajar.
Blake noticed that there lay therein a great mass of crimson roses; scattered amid the toilet articles and accessories of a woman.
Passing through the crowds of the deck, he had heard, also, The Man Who Knew telling another man, who did not know of Young Parmalee.
It had been but a word.
But it had been a word that had found fructification and meaning in the sight of a deck steward, with a bucket, mopping up something from the deck, just outside the little passageway.
Kathryn and Muriel, seen safely to the room that Schuyler was to occupy, Blake returned and made his way out upon the deck.
He stood for a moment by the steward, watching him.
Then very quietly inquired: "Where did it happen, Steward?"
The steward, wringing out the mop into the dark water of his bucket, looked up.
There were beads of sweat upon his bronzed, wrinkled brow.
Yet the day was not warm.
"Wot, sir?"
he queried.
"Where did it happen?"
"Wot happen sir?"
"Young Parmalee's suicide."
Blake spoke quietly, calmly.
The steward's eyes shifted.
"Suicide, sir?"
he said.
"Don't know nothink about it, gov'ner."
Blake pointed to the spot upon the deck.
"What's that, then?"
he demanded.
The steward moved, uneasily.
"A spot I just be'n a-cleanin' of, gov'ner."
Blake pointed to the bucket.
"And that?"
he persisted.
"Water, sir."
"And--?"
The steward slowly drew the back of his hand across dry lips.
And then, in a swift rush of strangled words: "Blood, gov'ner.
Blood....
Only a boy he was, sir, and she looked down on him, laying there with his brains spattered on the deck and she laughed, sir....
God, sir!
She laughed...."
He struggled to his feet and pulled his forelock.
He said in altered tones: "Beg pardon, sir.
But a man can't be a blime machine all the time, sir."
There came a call from the state-room.
"Get that bucket away from here.
Quick!"
And Blake turned to meet the wife and child of his friend, as they came from the state-room.
"Oh, I do hope Jack won't be late," Kathryn remarked, scanning the decks.
Blake standing between her and the steward, returned with forced lightness: "Oh, he has plenty of time.
Half an hour at least.
Why, once I lost fifty thousand in the market, broke my steering gear running over a fat policeman, was arrested, taken to court and bailed out and all within twenty minutes.
Jack's got time to squander."
There was sadness in the violet eyes.
"It will be very lonely when he's gone--very lonely," she mused, slowly.
"Well, it will be as lonely for him as it will for you," Blake returned;
"which is a doubtful consolation, but one that most women don't have."
Muriel had wandered to the rail.
"Oh, I see him!"
she cried, suddenly.
"There he is!
Daddy!
Daddy, dear!
...
He's right there on the gangway--right behind that fat lady-- the one with the red nose.
I'm going to meet him."
Sturdy little legs started to follow the summons of impulsive little brain.
But her mother detained her.
"No, dearie," she objected.
"You'll get lost He'll be here in a moment, now."
"Not unless he can get by that lady," protested the child.
"He's--he's--" "Pocketed is the word you want, Muriel," assisted Blake.
He was looking in the direction which the child had indicated.
Suddenly, he exclaimed: "I see him now.
He doesn't see us, though.
Possibly he doesn't know where his stateroom is.
These boats are very confusing.
I'll go fetch him."
Blake disappeared in the throngs upon the deck.
Muriel turned to her mother.
"Mother," she implored.
"Yes, dear?"
"Why can't we go, too, mother dear?"
"We must stay to care for Aunt Elinor."
"But she has a doctor and two nurses now," protested the child.
"But," returned her mother, smiling, "that isn't like one's own family."
The child was for a moment sunk deep in thought most serious.
"But why must both of us stay?"
she asked, at length.
Then, suddenly: "Mother, dear!"
"Yes little sweetheart?"
"I'll match you to see which one of us goes!"
Mrs. Schuyler, surprised, smiled.
"Why, daughter!
Wherever did you learn that?"
"I heard Mr. Tom and daddy the other night.
They were sitting in the library, and Mr. Tom said, 'I'll match you to see who gets the cigars.'
So, mother dear, I thought that you and I might match one another to see which of us could go with daddy."
Kathryn placed an arm about her, drawing her to her.
"Do you want to go with daddy--and leave mother?"
she asked.
The child shook her head, doubtfully.
"No," she said, "not exactly....
I want to go with daddy.
I love daddy.
But I want to stay with you, too, mother dear....
Mother dear," she added suddenly.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Wouldn't it be nice if we were both twins!
Then half of us could go with daddy, and the other half of us stay at home with Aunt Elinor."
[Illustration] CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
THE BEGINNING.
Schuyler came hurrying down the deck, Blake and Parks close behind.
There was on his face the smile of great gladness.
He placed one strong arm about his wife, the other about his child.
"I've some bully news for you, Kate, dear!
The President has so arranged that I can complete my work and get back to you in less than a month.
Isn't that splendid?
Just one little month and I'll be back again with you and baby."
The child raised her head in protest.
"But I'm not a baby, now.
I'm six years old.
Mother has to pay full fare for me on the cars.
Don't you, mother?"
Schuyler picked her up from the deck, tossing her in the air.
"No matter what you may be to conductors, you'll always be baby to daddy, you little darling," he said, brightly.
Then, turning to Blake, with lightness born of great earnestness: "Take good care of them while I'm gone, won't you, old man.
By Jove, I'd like to chuck it all, even at the last minute as it is, and stay at home--" Facing his wife, child and friend, his eyes were up the broad deck.
Came toward him The Woman--The Woman known of The Man Who Knew, and of Young Parmalee.
Schuyler's voice died in his throat.
Her eyes were upon him.
His eyes were upon her.
She made no movement.
She paused not in her indolent, sinuous walk.
Her eyes were upon him; and that was all--dark eyes, glowing, inscrutable, beautiful with the beauty that was hers.
And his eyes were on hers....
She turned up the narrow passageway in which lay Schuyler's stateroom....
Blake saw, too.
He was not of those who live in the froth of things--that froth of things that is the scum.
But he was of the world; and they who are of the world have knowledge of all that that world contains--of all, that is, that it is for such as they to know.
Kathryn looked up, at length, anxiously.
Schuyler was never abstracted.
She prompted: "You were saying, Jack, dear--" Schuyler drew his hand, palm out, across his forehead.
"Why--oh, yes," he floundered, trying to marshal his scattered thoughts.
"I was saying--" He appealed to Blake, half-helplessly, half-whimsically.
"By Jove, that's strange.
What was I saying, Tom?"
Blake replied, shortly: "You were asking me to take good care of them."
Schuyler nodded.
"Oh, yes," he assented.
And then; "I don't understand.
I--but you will take good care of them, won't you, old man?
They're all I have; and more, they're all I want.
Guard them, Tom, for me as though they were your own."
* * * * * Waiting to take farewell of those one loves is indeed a sweetness tinged with bitterness.
And if one loves very, very much, it is sometimes a bitterness tinged with sweetness.
Kathryn, lower lip clenched between white teeth, herself unhappy would have kept that unhappiness as far as possible hers alone.
There were those on board that she knew.
To them she went; for there was still, since time was short, too much of it.
Muriel she took with her.
Schuyler, in his eyes all the virile love that such as he feel for theirs, watched her vanish amid the throngs.
Then, sauntering to the rail, leaned against it....
There came into his eyes a look of abstraction, of aberration, of puzzlement.
Blake stood watching him-- stood for a long time, silent, unmoving....
At length he moved to Schuyler's side.
"Old man," he said, very slowly, very quietly, very earnestly; "old man, what's up?"
Schuyler turned, quickly "What's up?"
he repeated.
"What do you mean?"
Blake said, still slowly: "There's something happened to you."
"Happened," cried Schuyler.
"Something happened?"
He laughed.
"What could have happened?"
"Damned if I know.
But something has.
I've got a hunch."
Schuyler answered, lightly: "Well, you'd better take it to a doctor and have it diagnosed."
He half turned.
"It's only my natural nervousness at leaving Kathryn and Muriel-- and the importance of my mission.
By the way," he asked, abruptly, "what was that crowd doing on the dock as I came up?"
Blake, selecting a cigarette, lighted it.
"Suicide," he said, curtly.
Schuyler started.
"You say it mighty cold-bloodedly," he asserted.
"Where did it happen?"
"Here, I believe.
Almost where we are standing."
"Good God!
Who was it?"
"Young chap, named Parmalee."
"What?
The boy who's been in the papers so much lately--who disgraced himself, and his people, for a woman?"
Blake nodded, and continued: "Did you happen to notice the woman who passed a moment ago?
--the one carrying the red roses?"
Schuyler bent his head.
"I noticed her," he replied, slowly.
"What of her?"
"The woman."
"You don't mean Parmalee--?"
"Yes, I do."
"Because his love was not returned?"
"Because," replied Blake, smiling mirthlessly "it _was_ returned....
Did you ever read that!
thing of Kipling's, _The Vampire_?"
"Why, yes, of course," returned Schuyler.
"Almost everyone's read that."
"Do you remember how it goes?"
persisted Blake.
Schuyler thought a moment.
Then, slowly, he recited: "A fool there was, and he made his prayer, (Even as you and I) To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair.
We called her the woman who did not care.
But the fool, he called her his Lady Fair--" He broke off, abruptly.
"A weird thing," he said, as though to himself.
"I never thought much about what it meant before...."
He turned, abruptly.
"Why did you ask me if I'd read it?"
he demanded.
"Well," said Blake, flicking the ashes from his cigarette, "there's the fool," he nodded toward the drying spot upon the deck.
"And there," he indicated, with a backward toss of his well-shaped head, the corridor down which had passed the woman, "is his lady fair.
I've even heard," he went on, "that she used to call him her 'fool,' quoting the poem.
Pretty little conceit, eh?"
His jaw, firm, square, set tight.
Then, with a touch of deeper feeling.
"She murdered that boy just as surely as if she had cut his throat; and the worst of it is that she can't be held legally guilty--morally, yes, guilty as sin; but legally--" He shook his head.
"The laws that man makes for mankind are a joke."
"As sometimes seem," added Schuyler, slowly, "the laws that God makes for mankind....
If what you say about that woman be true, she ought to be taken by the hair of the head and dragged through the hell she has built for others."
His brows were knitted; he was gazing with unseeing eyes upon the bustle and confusion of the dock below.
Blake, eyeing him, remarked quietly, but in tones more light: "However, that's not your job, nor mine, thank God.
It would be an eminently suitable recreation for a debonair young man with a shattered reputation, a cast iron stomach, several millions of dollars and no objections to staying up by the year."
He turned a little, toward Schuyler.
"What are you thinking about?"
he queried.
"Only the fool."
"The generic fool of Kipling, or Young Parmalee?"
"I was thinking of Young Parmalee, then."
"And the woman?"
Schuyler quoted, slowly: "A fool there was--" "Oh, but," Blake protested, "I wouldn't call him a fool."
"Why not?"
demanded Schuyler.
"He was a fool."
"Yes," returned Blake.
"But he's dead, now."
"Bosh," retorted Schuyler, impatiently.
"I've no sympathy with that false sentiment that forbids one to speak the unpleasant truth of a dead person.
If a man were a fool while alive, his dying doesn't absolve him of his folly.
Young Parmalee's death was a mitigating circumstance, however.
He killed himself; which shows that he had some manhood left.
But he should have had the decency to choose another place for his self destruction."
He was silent for a moment; at length he went on: "A man is what he is, and he was what he was.
His dying can change nothing of his living."
He looked up.
His wife and child were coming toward him.
"Say nothing to them about all this, Tom," he urged.
"Certainly not," acquiesced Blake.
A steward came down the deck, calling raucously: "All ashore that's going ashore!"
Kathryn turned to Schuyler.
"And now that the time has really come to say good-bye," she said, brokenly, "here's something I brought you, Jack."
She handed him a little box of glazed cardboard.
Wonderingly he took it.
"For me?"
he cried, with simulated gaiety.
"That's sweet of you, dear heart--sweeter, even than are these."
For he had opened it, and taken forth the tiny bouquet of forget-me-nots that had nestled in the depths of the moist cotton, "and these are sweetness itself.
But why forget-me- nots!
As though I could ever forget you, even for one little minute!"
There came again the strident call: "All ashore that's going ashor-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-e!!!"
Violet eyes suffused, Kathryn was clinging to him.
"Jack," she whispered.
"Jack, I'm afraid I'm--going--to--cry."
With infinite tenderness he held her to him.
"There, there, sweetheart mine," he said, soothingly.
"Don't be a silly....
Now we'll all go down to the gangway, where the big hugs are....
Then I'll rush back here and we can wave one another good-bye and try to imagine I'm going only over to Staten Island for the afternoon."
Came farewells at the gangway--farewells of tears, of heart-aches, of quivering lips and moist lids--of laughter quavering and smiles unreal-- of the good hand clasp that good men know--the touch of wet, clinging lips.
Schuyler came rushing down the deck, keeping to that part of the ship that lay nearest to the dock.
From the bouquet that had been given him, he plucked tiny, fragrant blossoms, casting them to those that had given, and with them sending cheery word of hope, tender word of parting.
He could see them there, far below, straining against the ropes, waving to him.
He could see the violet eyes, tear laden, the lithe, slender, figure of his wife in the glory of her perfect womanhood--the sturdy little body of his child, barelegged, browned, hair tumbled, waving frantically a tiny little square of muslin and shouting farewells at the highest pitch of childish treble.
He could see his friend--the friend such as few men may ever have, and, having, may pray to hold--broad shoulders protecting wife and child from the pressing throngs--he could hear his voice booming through all the heterogeneous medley of sound.
His voice choked.
Words that he was crying--words lost in all the confusion of sound and movement--stuck in his throat.
Moisture came to his eyes....
