A FOOL THERE WAS

BY

PORTER EMERSON BROWNE

"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-- (Even as you and I. )"

ILLUSTRATED BYEDMUND MAGRATHANDW. W. FAWCETT

1909

TOROBERT HILLIARD. 

CONTENTS

Chapter. 

I. Of Certain PeopleII. Of Certain Other PeopleIII. Two Boys and a GirlIV. The Child and the StrangerV. As Time PassesVI. An AccidentVII. An IncidentVIII. Of Certain GoingsIX. Of Certain Other GoingsX. Two Boys and a DoctorXI. A ProposalXII. A Foreign MissionXIII. The GoingXIV. Parmalee--and The WomanXV. A WarningXVI. The BeginningXVII. In The NightXVIII. White RosesXIX. ShadowsXX. A Fairy StoryXXI. A LetterXXII. Again The Fairy StoryXXIII. AidXXIV. The RescueXXV. The ReturnXXVI. The Red RoseXXVII. The Red RoadXXVIII. The BattleXXIX. DefeatXXX. And Its ConsequencesXXXI. That Which Men SaidXXXII. In the GardenXXXIII. TemptationXXXIV. The Shroud of a SoulXXXV. The Thing that was a ManXXXVI. Again the BattleXXXVII. The Pity of It All

ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"Beautiful, gloriously beautiful in her strange, weird dark beauty"

"Bye little sweetheart"

"I do forgive--forgive and understand"

"Can't you find in that dead thing you call a heart just one shred of pity?"

CHAPTER ONE. 

OF CERTAIN PEOPLE. 

To begin a story of this kind at the beginning is hard; for when thebeginning may have been, no man knows. Perhaps it was a hundred yearsago--perhaps a thousand--perhaps ten thousand; and it may well be, yetlonger ago, even, than that. Yet it can be told that John Schuyler camefrom a long line of clean-bodied, clean-souled, clear-eyed, clear-headedancestors; and from these he had inherited cleanness of body and of soul, clearness of eye and of head. They had given him all that lay in theirpower to give, had these honest, impassive Dutchmen and--women--thesebroad-shouldered, narrow-hipped English; they had amalgamated for himtheir virtues, and they had eradicated for him their vices; they hadcultivated for him those things of theirs that it were well to cultivate;and they had plucked ruthlessly from the gardens of heredity the weedsand tares that might have grown to check his growth. And, doing this, they had died, one after another, knowing not what they had done--knowingnot why they had done it--knowing not what the result would be--doingthat which they did because it was in them to do it; and for no otherreason save that. For so it is of this world. 

First, then, it is for you to know these things that I have told. Secondly, it is for you to realize that there are things in this world ofwhich we know but little; that there are other things of which we maysometime learn; that there are infinitely more things that not even thewisest of us may ever begin to understand. God chooses to tell us nothingof that which comes after; and of that which comes therein He lets uslearn just enough that we may know how much more there is. 

And knowing and realizing these things, we may but go back as far towardthe beginning as it is in our power to see. 

 * * * * *

Before the restless, never-ebbing of the tides of business hadoverwhelmed it with a seething flood of watered stocks and liquiddollars, there stood on a corner of Fifth Avenue and one of its lowertributaries, a stern, heavy-portalled mansion of brownstone. It was ahouse not forbidding, but dignified. Its broad, plate-glass windows gazedout in silent, impassive tolerance upon the streams of social life thatpassed it of pleasant afternoons in Spring and Fall--on sleet-sweptnights of winter when 'bus and brougham brought from theatre and operatheir little groups and pairs of fur-clad women and high-hatted men. Itwas a big house--big in size--big in atmosphere--big in manner. 

At its left there was another big house, much like the one that I havealready described. It was possibly a bit more homelike--a bit lessdignified; for, possibly, its windows were a trifle more narrow, and itsportal a little less imposing. And across from that there lay a smallerhouse--a house of brick; and this was much more inviting than either ofthe others; for one might step from the very sidewalk within the broadhall, hung with two very, very old portraits and lighted warmly withshades of dull yellow, and of pink. 

In the first of the big houses there lived a boy; and in the second therelived another boy; and across, in the little house of brick, there liveda girl. Of course, in these houses there dwelt, as well, other people. 

Of these was John Stuyvesant Schuyler, who, with his wife Gretchen, livedin the big house on the corner, was a man silent, serious. He livedintent, honest, upright. He seldom laughed; though when he did, therecame at the corners of mouth and eye, tiny, tell-tale lines which showedthat beneath seriousness and silence, lay a fund of humor unharmed bycontinual drain. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, straight-backed. And to that which had been left him, he added, in health, in mind, and inmoney, and he added wisely and well, and never at unjust expense toanyone. 

His wife was much as he in trait and habit. She, too, was silent, serious, intent. Of her time, of her effort, of herself, she gave freelywherein it were well to give. In her youth, she had been a beautifulgirl; as a woman, she was still beautiful; and her husband and her sonwere very proud of her, though the one was fifty-five, and the other buttwelve. 

In the big house next door, there lived Thomas Cathcart Blake. He, too, had a wife, and one child--a boy. And of John Stuyvesant Schuyler he wasvery fond--even as Mrs. Thomas Cathcart Blake was fond of Mrs. JohnStuyvesant Schuyler; and even as Tom Blake, the son of the one, was fondof Jack Schuyler, the son of the other. Blake, the elder, was a manrotund of figure, ruddy of complexion, great of heart. He laughed much;for he enjoyed much. He gave away much more than he could make; and helaughed about it. His wife laughed with him. And really it made nodifference; for they had more for themselves than they could ever use. Ofcourse, you know, it is true that many people have more than they canever use; but few ever think so. 

In the little, warm house of red brick, across the street, lived KathrynBlair, and with her another Kathryn Blair, who was as much like the otheras it is possible for six to be like thirty. They both had wide, violeteyes and sensitive, red lips, and very white teeth and lithe, slenderbodies. And they were both loved very much by everyone; and everyone saidwhat a shame it was that he or she hadn't put his or her foot down_hard_ and made Jimmy Blair stay at home instead of letting him godown into that unpronounceable Central American place and get killed inan opera bouffe revolution with which he had absolutely nothing to doexcept that he couldn't stand idly by and see women and little childrenshot. Still, it was such a blessing to Kate that she had little Kate tohelp her bear it all. And she had enough money, too; no one seemed toknow how; for Jimmy Blair was a reckless giver and a poor business men. But John Stuyvesant Schuyler and Thomas Cathcart Blake had beenexecutors. And that explained much to those who knew; for once every twoor three months, these two men, so different and yet so alike, wouldstalk solemnly, side by side, across the street and, still solemnly, still side by side, would inform the violet-eyed widow of Jimmy Blairthat the investments that her husband had made for her had been veryfortunate and that there was in the bank for her the sum of many morehundreds of dollars than poor Jimmy himself could have made in as manyyears. And she, deifying the man who had been her husband, endowing himwith the abilities of a Morgan, a Root and a Rothschild, would believeall that they said; and she would tell the neighbors; and they, beinggood neighbors, would nod, seriously, unsmilingly. "Jimmy Blair was awonderful, wonderful man, " they would say. And the violet eyes would growsoft and dim, and the sensitive lips tremble a little, and the prettily-poised head would sink forward upon the rounded breast. And she was lessunhappy; for when others love the one you love, even though that one begone, it makes the pain far, far less. Also, it is a great blessing tohave about one those who know enough not to know too much. 

So it was of the three houses, and of those who lived therein. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWO. 

OF CERTAIN OTHER PEOPLE. 

In the littleness of things, it so happened that at a time when JohnStuyvesant Schuyler and Thomas Cathcart Blake, serious, solemn, side-by-side, were telling the widow of Jimmy Blair that the Tidewater SouthernRailroad, in which her husband had largely interested himself before hisdeath, had declared an extra dividend that had enabled them that day todeposit to her credit in the bank the sum of four thousand two hundredand eighty-one dollars and seventy-three cents, in a little hut on theblack Breton coast a woman lay dying. 

It was a bare hut, and noisome. In it it were perhaps better to die thanto live; and yet that one might not say. From before it one might gazeupon league upon league of sullen sea, stretching to where, far in thedim distance, lay the curve of the horizon upbearing the gray dome of thesky. 

Inside the hovel there was a smoke-stained fireplace beside which wasstrewn an armful of faggots. There was before it a number of broken andgreasy dishes, filled with fragments of food. And all about on the floorlay the litter of the sick-room. 

The dying woman was stretched inert, moveless, upon a rough bed of ropeand rush. Perhaps she had been pretty once, in an animal way. She was notnow. Lips that doubtless had been red were white and drawn in pain; andthere was blood upon them, where white, even teeth had bitten in the waythat those who suffer have of trying to hide a greater suffering beneatha lesser. The eyes, deep and dark, were dull and half-hidden by theirblue, transparent lids. And the cheeks were sunken, and ghastly--touchedby the hand of death. 

A heavy, course-featured woman, thin hair streaked with gray, flat-backed, flat-breasted, sat beside the rude bed, silent, motionless, awaiting an end that she had so often watched in the sullen ferocity thatis of beast rather than of man. And on her lap lay a little, pink, pulingthing that whimpered and twisted weakly--a little, naked, thing halfcovered by roughly-cast sacking. 

The tiny, twisting thing whimpered. The woman beside the bed held it, waiting. The woman on the bed moaned a little, and the glaze upon theeyes grew more thick. And that was all. 

There came to the ears that were not too new come or too far gone tohear, the sound of hoof beats upon the turf. They came nearer.... Theystopped. Came the sound of spurred heels striking upon the trodden dirtwithout the door.... There stood in the opening the figure of a man. Hewas tall, and well-proportioned, though if anything a bit too slender--abit too graceful; and he was, if anything, a bit too well groomed. He hadlight hair, and moustache. He had cold eyes that smiled; cold lips thatsmiled. He stood in the doorway, trying to accustom his eyes to the gloomwithin, the while playing a deft tattoo upon his booted calf with lightcrop that he carried in his right hand. 

"Well?" he said, at length, in the French that is of Paris. "Well? ... What is all this?"

The tiny thing whimpered. The woman upon the bed moaned a little, weakly. She, who sat beside it, looked up, eyes aflame. She said no word. 

The man in the doorway took a step forward, entering. He was stillsmiling. He looked about him; and then he continued:

"Sick, eh? ... Dying? ... And that thing that you have in your--_Mafoi_! A baby, eh?" He laughed, aloud. The broken peals came back tohim from the sodden, smoke-stained rafters. "Strange that I should havecome to-day.... A baby!" He laughed again, modulatedly. And then, with anair of sympathetic commiseration he said to the gray-haired old womanwith the eyes of fire:

"Too bad that your daughter is not married--since she, I presume, is themother! ... And the happy father?--he is--?" He stopped, waiting, smilingly. 

The fierce, blazing eyes were set full upon his own. She said, in thepatois that was of her and hers:

"You ask that? ... You?"

He answered, evenly. 

"Yes. I ask that. Even I. "

Quickly, with the agility of the brute, she thrust toward him the little, puling thing that lay upon her lap. 

"Look, then, " she said, in deep, grating tones. 

He leaned forward, crossing his hands behind him, and looked. The crop, held in his right hand, tapped lightly against his booted left leg. Thewoman waited. At length he stood erect. He shook his head and smiled. 

"Babies are all alike, " he remarked, easily. "Red, dirty, unformed, nohair.... This is a little redder, a little more dirty, a little moreunformed; it has a little less hair.... Beyond that, _quoi_?"

The shrunken lips of the old woman set tightly; the eyes flared. 

"You dare--!" she began. And then: "It is your mouth--your chin. The noseis yours. The eyes they shall be hers. " She nodded her head in thedirection of the dying mother upon the bed. "And perhaps, some day--" Shedid not finish. She settled the baby back again upon her knees and sat, waiting. 

The man, still smiling, gazed up the woman on the bed. 

"Dead?" he queried, with a lift of the brows. 

She did not answer. He bent over the prostrate form; then again stooderect. He shrugged his shoulders. 

He turned again to the shrivelled woman on the chair. 

"You have named it?" he asked. "You have named--our child?"

Still she did not answer. 

"It were not improper, " he continued, smilingly, half-musingly, "for afather to venture a suggestion anent a name.... _Eh bien_, then. Ishould wish that the baby be known as" he stopped for a moment, thinking, the while lightly tapping booted leg with the tip of his crop. "I shouldsuggest, " he repeated, "calling her Rien. It is an appropriate name, Rien. It is not a bad name; in fact, it is rather a pretty name.... Rien.... Rien.... Rien.... " He repeated it several times. "Yes, it seemsto me that that is an excellent name.... We will, then, consider her nameRien. " He laughed once more. 

"Because of certain reasons, " he went on, "I'm afraid that my paternalduties must cease with the naming of our child. "

He turned to the dying woman upon the bed. 

"Bon voyage, mam'selle--eh, pardon, madame, " he said. He lifted his hat, bowing. To the old woman he turned. 

"To you--" he began; she interrupted. 

"Her eyes, they will be her mother's, " she mumbled, sullenly. 

"Which will be well, " he smiled. "Her mother had beautiful eyes--wonderful eyes. "

"More wonderful than you knew, " muttered the old woman. "Had you come aday sooner--"

Still he smiled. 

"But I didn't, " he replied; and then nodding toward the whimpering thingthat the woman held:

"You should guard it well. There is of the best blood of France in itsveins. " His lips curled, whimsically. "'Tis strange, that, _n'es-cepas_? In that small piece of carrion which you hold there upon yourknees runs the blood of three kings. " Again he laughed, musically. Heturned. 

He had not seen her stoop. The long-bladed knife struck him in the arm, piercing flesh and vein and sinew, sticking there. Slowly he plucked itforth, and turned to her, still smiling. 

"You are old, madame. Do not apologize; it was not your fault. "

He took the knife delicately by the tip and with a little flip sent itspinning through the air and over the edge of the cliff. And he was gone. 

The woman, shrivelled, gray-haired, sinking back in her chair, satsilent. The puling thing upon her knees whimpered. The dying woman uponthe rude bed of rope and rush moaned. And that was all. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THREE. 

TWO BOYS AND A GIRL. 

To the budding mind of young Jack Schuyler, life was a very pleasantaffair. It began each morning at six thirty; and from then on until eightat night, there was something to fill each moment. He didn't care forschool, particularly; still, it wasn't difficult enough to cause muchdiscomfort. The natal pains of study were not by any means unbearableinasmuch as he was quick to see and to understand; and furthermore, hewas possessed of a retentive memory. In his classes he assumed a positionof about eighth from the fore; and he maintained it with but littlefluctuation. In the out-of-door sports of small boys, he was usuallyfirst--that is, when Tom Blake wasn't. When Tom Blake was, Jack Schuylerwas second. 

He was a sturdy boy, active, quick, strong of limb and of body. He hadearnest, serious eyes of gray-blue, like those of his father. His mouthand chin were delicate, like his mother's. And he was thoughtful, ratherthan impulsive. 

Tom Blake, on the other hand, was impulsive rather than thoughtful. Hehad dark eyes and ruddy cheeks; and, at the age of nine, he had learnedto walk on his hands in a manner that caused acute envy to rankle in thebosom of every boy in the neighborhood. Also, as is most unusual amongboys of whatever station, color or instinct, he was self-sacrificing, andmore than generous, and loyal to a fault. 

Kathryn Blair was all that might have been expected of a daughter of herfather and mother. Had you known them, it were difficult to describefurther. You have been told that she was lithe, and dainty and verypretty. And she was feminine, very, and yet not unhoydenish; for sheplayed much with Jack Schuyler and Tom Blake. She was natural, andunaffected, and whole-souled and buoyant, quick to laughter, quick totears, with an inexhaustible fund of merriment, and of sympathy. 

Of an afternoon, in early December, they lay, these three young animals, sprawling upon the great room in Blake's house--the room that had beenmade for play. The gentle rays of the early-setting sun streamed inthrough the broad windows upon a tumbled heap of discarded playthings, and upon a floor strewn with that which might have appeared to bedrifting snow but which in reality was feathers; for there had been afierce pillow fight; and one of the pillows, under the pressure ofrolling little bodies, had burst. Its shrunken shape lay in a far cornerof the room, rumpled, empty, a husk of the plump thing that it had beenbut a short time before. 

Kathryn Blair, with slender, stockinged legs thrust out before her, waspicking from the tangled masses of her gold-brown hair little clingingbits of down. Tom Blake, beside her lay flat upon his back; and by him, was Jack Schuyler, his head resting upon the heaving diaphragm of theother. 

At length Jack Schuyler sat up, looking about him. 

"Phew!" he whistled. "It looks like a snowslide.... We'll catch it now!"

Tom Blake rolled over on his stomach. He shook his head. 

"Don't worry about that, " he said. "Dad won't care, nor mother.... Besides, you're my guests, you know.... What shall we do now?"

Kathryn Blair said:

"I want to get these feathers off first. They stick terribly.... Everytime I think I've got hold of one, I find it's a hair. " She shifted, sothat her back was toward Tom Blake. "Help me, Tom, " she commanded. 

Obediently he rose to his knees. Resting his left hand upon her shoulder, he plucked, with clumsy masculine fingers at the bits of white thatnestled in her hair.... She gave a little cry. 

"Ouch! That hurts, Tom! I guess I'd better wait until I get home and haveHarris do it. Harris isn't pretty, but she's awfully good; and shedoesn't fuss a bit" ... She turned around, suddenly, violet eyes widewith excitement. "Oh! I forgot to tell you!" she cried. "Doctor DeLanceysaid that maybe he'd bring me a baby brother today!"

Tom Blake and Jack Schuyler both turned to her. 

"He did!" they cried almost together. 

She nodded, profoundly. 

"Yes, " she said. "That's why they sent me over here to get all mussed upwith feathers. You know baby brothers are bashful. Dr. DeLancey told meall about it. They like to be all alone in the house with their mothers, so that they can get acquainted. "

Jack Schuyler rose up on his elbows. 

"I know a boy, " he said, "that was promised a baby brother and all he gotwas a sister.... I don't think that was square, do you?"

Tom Blake looked out the window, thoughtfully. 

"I don't know, " he remarked at length, judicially. "It might not havebeen the doctor's fault. Sometimes they get 'em mixed, I guess.... Andanyhow, sisters aren't so bad. I wish I had one right now--one like you, Kathryn. " He turned on her eyes in which were the frank liking andadmiration of boyhood. 

She tossed the tumbled braids of her hair back over her shoulders. 

"I'd rather be a boy, myself, " she said. "They don't have to wear dressesand things. And people don't give them dolls when they'd rather haverocking horses.... I wish they'd hurry and bring that brother. I'm justwild to see it!"

Jack Schuyler sat up. 

"Well, " he assured her, "They'll send over for you when it comes.... Whatshall we do now?"

He waited patiently for suggestions. Tom Blake and Kathryn Blair sat, foreheads grooved in thought. At length Jack Schuyler cried suddenly:

"I know! Let's play leopard shooting! I saw a picture of one in thegeography. It looked just like Fiddles. " Fiddles was the plethoricMaltese member of the Blake family. "We've got those tin guns, and we canstalk it. What do you say?"

That which they said was later evidenced; for when Thomas Cathcart Blakeentered the front door of his residence that night and started up thestairs, he was met by an excited feline, followed by three equallyexcited children. And the cat, on seeing him, its cosmogony disrupted tosuch an extent that it felt itself no longer able to distinguish friendfrom foe, tried to turn back with the result that its first pursuer fellover it. There was the added result that the next two pursuers trippedupon the sprawling form of the first. And Thomas Cathcart Blake had greatdifficulty in preventing himself from joining the sprawling parade thattumbled past him to the foot of the stairs, and lay at the bottom, a heapof tossing legs and arms and ribbons and fur. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER FOUR. 

THE CHILD AND THE STRANGER. 

It is of necessity that a story such as this should be episodical, lapsical, disconnected. Its inception lies in two countries, and ofdifferent people. And it is, in its beginnings, a story of contrasts. Soone may be permitted again to say: At a time when pompous, ponderous, white-whiskered, black-suited old Dr. DeLancey was engaged in bringing tothe daughter of Kathryn Blair a posthumous baby brother that, in themystery of things, turned out after all to be a sister, a strangerchanced to be riding at dusk through the deep shades of the Bois du Nord, in Brittany. The path was overhung with spreading boughs; it was tumbledwith the wood-litter of a decade. His horse went slowly, lifting eachforefoot daintily and placing it carefully. And the stranger permittedthe animal to take its own time. 

At length he came to a turning. The huge bole of a great oak was at hisleft. He rounded it. His horse raised its head, nostrils distended, eyesalert, and stopped. 

The stranger looked up. It was a strange picture that met his eyes.... 

At first he did not believe that that which he saw was human. It seemedlike some nymph of the wood; for there are nymphs in the Bois du Nord, you know, many of them. Anyone who lives there will tell you that. 

But then his eyes fell upon a tumbled heap of clothing; and he knew thatit was not a nymph, after all. For nymphs do not wear clothing. 

There was a little woodland pool before him. The sun, straining throughthe great, heavy-leafed boughs, specked it with blots and blotches ofgold. Beside it there sat the figure of a girl, naked. She sat there, herslender legs beneath her, her slender body leaning upon one rounded, white arm. Great masses of dead-black hair fell about her glowingshoulders, half covering the arm which supported her. Her other handclasped her knee. Her dark eyes were gazing before her toward the trunkof the oak. The stranger felt that she knew that he was there; and yetshe had not looked at him. 

On the bole of the oak was a squirrel. It was motionless, as thoughcarved out of the trunk itself. Beneath it lay coiled a snake. Its eyeswere fastened upon those of the squirrel and its flat, ugly head wasmoving gently to and fro--to and fro--the while its forked tongue playedback and forth between its fangs. 

They waited there, the stranger and the naked girl. They waited for along, long time.... 

By and by the squirrel moved a little. One forefoot crept slowly down thebark of the oak--and then the other--the one hind foot--and then itsmate.... And the squirrel was nearer to the snake. 

Again they waited, the stranger and the naked girl.... The squirrel creptyet further down the trunk, toward the slow-shifting venomous head.... 

The horse snorted.... The squirrel raised its head; and darted up thetree trunk. It was gone. And the snake slid noiselessly off into theunderbrush.... The naked girl turned dark, deep eyes upon the stranger. She seemed not to mind her nakedness. And to him it seemed not strangethat she should not. The horror of it all was deep within him. Hemurmured, beneath his breath:

"Good God!"

Then he spoke to her, a muttered word, a meaningless word. She swung herbody over, sinuously, so that she faced him, slender legs half stretched. The dead black hair rippled over budding breasts. She did not answer. Shemerely looked at him. 

The stranger sat there. His eyes blinked a little; he brushed his handacross them, weakly. Then he looked at her again. 

Came a sudden rustling in the brush, beside him. His horse leapedforward, almost unseating him.... He had gone far down the trail beforehe reined it in. Then he crossed himself. His eyes showed that he wasfrightened. 

There was a turning in the path, a turning that led to the main road. Thestranger swung his horse into this turning. He knew that it added to thelength of his journey by a good league and a half. And yet he took thatturning. 

And, later, as he turned into the travelled road, he breathed a deep, deep sigh; and again he crossed himself. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER FIVE. 

AS TIME PASSES. 

Time passed on over the heads of young Jack Schuyler and young Tom Blakeand the daughter of Jimmy Blair. They grew in stature, and in intellect. They grew through the grades of school that lie between nine and fifteen;and then they separated to go to boarding school. 

Jack Schuyler and Tom Blake went to one; the daughter of Jimmy Blair andKathryn Blair to another. And the baby brother that had turned out to bea sister, and who had been named Elinor, stayed at home with the widow ofJimmy Blair; and the widow of Jimmy Blair was now hardly as lonely aswere the parents of Jack Schuyler and Tom Blake. 

John Stuyvesant Schuyler had built for himself a place at Larchmont, onthe Sound. "Grey Rocks, " he called it. It was a long, low rambling house, built of stone and of darkened wood. It sat ensconced in a deep phalanxof great, green trees at the head of a great, green lawn. It was not abig house, of pretension, of arrogant wealth, of many servants--ofclosely-shaven shrubbery and woodeny landscape gardening. It was, rather, a house that was a home--and there is a distinction--a vast distinction;for there is many a house that is not a home even as there is many a homethat is not a house. 

Thomas Cathcart Blake built for himself another house, next to it. Thatalso was a rambling, homelike place, with broad halls and deep windows, and wide doors. And the doors he kept open most of the time; for he likedgood people, and good people liked him. His big yacht lay during most ofthe summer a quarter of a mile from the end of his pier. He lived on itpart of the time, with Mrs. Thomas Cathcart Blake, and their guests; partof the time he lived on the shore, in the house that he had built. Dr. DeLancey once asked him if he ever moved the yacht from its moorings, andwanted to bet that the sail covers were stuffed with hay. Thomas CathcartBlake grinned and said that, as for taking the yacht out to sea, he wasafraid of getting it wet; and he wouldn't want to bet as to what the sailcovers were stuffed with because it might be excelsior, or cotton, or anyone of a number of things. 

They always had much company at "The Lawns, " which was the name of thehouse, and on the "Idlesse, " which was the name of the yacht that seldomsailed; although Dr. DeLancey begged them to rechristen it "The Dock, " or"The Stake Boat, " or something of the sort, which he thought would bemuch more appropriate. And among this company, was a great deal, thewidow of Jimmy Blair, and her daughter. 

Young Jack Schuyler and young Tom Blake got home from college that yearabout the middle of June. Kathryn Blair was a few days later, owing tocertain nonacademic festivities which she didn't want to miss. You canknow, how popular and attractive and altogether charming she was when Itell you that she was like her mother at her age; and all New York knowshow hard it was even for Jimmy Blair--and there have been very few JimmyBlairs, you know--to make any perceptible progress amid the chokingmasses of his competing fellows. 

Jack Schuyler and Tom Blake went down to the train, in a trap, to meether. They hardly recognized the girl with whom they had pillow-fought andleopard-stalked in the dainty figure that descended from the dusty train. A year, with a girl of eighteen, means vast changes; and when that yearhas been spent at boarding school, it means changes yet more vast, infinitely. Thus, it was that Jack Schuyler and Tom Blake stood, jawsagape, eyes wide-open, and stared--frankly, unequivocally stared.... Thenthey went to meet her; and both tried to shake hands at once; then bothtried to pick up her travelling case at once; and they bumped theirheads. 

For the first half mile of the drive to the shore, they sat dumb, thinking with sore strainings of mind for things to say, and rejectingeach because it didn't seem to be good enough. Finally Tom Blake ventureda remark anent the weather. No harm came to him. So Jack Schuylerventured one about the wind. He also went scatheless. 

At length Tom Blake, looking at the fresh, clean beauty of the girl onthe other seat, forgot himself, and voiced, in the moment of histemporary aberration, that which was in the two adolescent male minds. 

"Doggone, but you've grown pretty, Kate!" and then blushed. 

She blushed, too, and looked at Jack Schuyler. At which he blushed andalmost carromed the trap against a telegraph pole. Whereat they alllaughed. And from then on, they were themselves. 

They were met by her mother at "The Lawns, " and by Dr. DeLancey. Dr. DeLancey was not bashful. He pinched her glowing cheek and looked herover, critically. 

"A positive symposium of pulchritude, " he declared. "I wish I were fiftyor seventy-five years younger, by Jove! If you two boys let any rankoutsider take her out of the family, you'll have me to reckon with. Yes, by Jove, you will! And you'll find that while I may be a poor fencer, anda worse boxer, I'm still a good spanker!"

[Illustration]

CHAPTER SIX. 

AN ACCIDENT. 

Dr. DeLancey, sitting under the awning of the after deck of "TheIdlesse, " and gazing out upon the sound where Jack Schuyler, Tom Blakeand Kathryn Blair were defying the laws of nature in a thirty footknockabout, much to the unspoken anxiety of two fathers and the spokenfear of three mothers, again voiced this thought on the followingevening. 

"The prettiest, sweetest, finest, loveliest child I ever knew, by Jove, "he declared; then, bowing, "present company, of course, excepted.... Yes, sir. If you two old ninnies don't force your sons to marry her, I'll takeit into my own hands, damme if I don't, by Jove!"

"But they can't both marry her, " protested the widow of Jimmy Blair, placing her arm about the baby brother that had turned out to be asister. 

The Doctor waved his hand, loftily. 

"A mere detail, " he asserted. "As long as one of 'em marries her, thatfixes it, doesn't it? And it doesn't make any difference which one;they're equally fine boys, both of 'em. Look at 'em. Did you ever seebetter shoulders--better shaped heads--better carriages? Mighty dashedhandsome boys, too, they are--get it from their mothers, " he bowedelaborately to Mrs. Jon Stuyvesant Schuyler and to Mrs. Thomas CathcartBlake, then added a look of contempt for, and at their husbands. "Yes, sir, " he went on, "they're fine boys, two of 'em--no denying that. Andshe--she's the right sort--no frills, or airs, or bluffs. Sensible, natural. If I'd have had a few more patients like them, I'd have starvedto death long ago. Why, they didn't have even a single measle--not onewhooping cough out of the lot. Disgraceful!"

In the meanwhile, far out on the sound, the little knockabout was heelingfar over in the playful breath of the summer breeze. Tom Blake, bare-headed, bare-armed, was at the tiller. Jack Schuyler, also bare-headedand bare-armed, sat on the after overhang, tending the sheet, and bracingmuscular legs against the swirling seas that, leaping over the lowfreeboard, tried to swirl him off among them. Kathryn Blair, leanedlithely against the weather rail, little, white--canvas-shod feet braced, skirts whipping about her slender body, rounded arms gripping the wetedge of the cockpit rail. The gold-brown hair, in loosened strands, whipped across her tanned cheek; her gown, open at the throat, revealed aglimpse of straight, perfectly-poised throat; her lips were parted andher breath came fast in the excitement of it. 

Blake held the knockabout to its course, with the confidence of youth inhis prowess, against them. The little boat leaped forward from crest tocrest, stopping between to shake the water from its deck. Above was theblue sky--all about them the blue water, white crested. 

The girl, bracing herself against a particularly hard pitch of the boat, balancing herself lightly, as the craft recovered and again leapedforward, cried:

"Isn't this fine!"

Blake nodded. Schuyler, waist deep in a swooping sea, did not hear... TheLong Island shore was close at hand now. 

Suddenly Blake shouted: "Hard a lee!" and jammed the tiller over;Schuyler, on the after overhang, scrambled fast to take in the slack ofthe sheet. Kathryn Blair bent, to avoid the swinging boom. 

The little boat swung about as though on a pivot. The wind filled thesail; she sped forward like a hawk unhooded. 

Then something happened. A stay parted; there was a great, grindingcrack, followed by the snapping and whipping of canvas. And the mastfell. 

Schuyler was knocked over into the water by the boom. It struck him fairupon the brow. Kathryn, springing to catch him, was hit by the flappingcanvas. She went overboard, too, and under the sail. 

Blake, on the weather side, was free from the wreck. Without evenstopping to turn, he dove backward from the cockpit. Under the cold, green water he went. He struck out, blindly, frenziedly. His hand feltsomething that was not canvas and yet was cloth--struck, and gripped. Then, holding his breath still until he thought his lungs would burst, hefelt his way out from under the sail. The rail of the boat was at hand;he gripped it. And he dragged Kathryn to it. 

"Hold on!" he cried in her ear. "Jack's gone!"

Though but half conscious, she understood. Her firm, white fingersgripped the cutting edge of the cockpit rail; she nodded. 

Blake struck out again. He had tried to remember where he had seenSchuyler disappear. Four strokes brought him to the spot; and then hedove. 

Again his hand struck something. Again he pulled, and tugged, and fought. At length he was at the surface. It was Schuyler. His eyes were closed. 

The tide, setting down the sound, was carrying the boat from him; he sethis teeth. He caught Schuyler by the neck of his jersey, over his ownshoulder, bringing his head out of water. 

And he struck out, with his free arm, desperately. 

It seemed as though he would never make progress. A dead weight, in thewater, is hard to drag. Every ounce of strength that was in his strong, young body he threw into those long, quivering strokes. He must get tothe boat! He _must_! The shore was too far away.... He stopped for aminute, treading water. There was no sail in sight. He flattened out inthe water again, breasting it with all his power. 

Stroke after stroke he took--stroke after stroke--reaching with strongright arm, thrusting with strong legs. The boat was no nearer.... He kepton, doggedly.... He could feel that his strokes were getting weaker; hismouth was under water more than half the time; he had to raise up tobreathe.... But he fought on.... He began to grow dizzy--there was aringing in his ears.... 

Suddenly he thought he saw, right before him, the face of Kathryn Blair. He knew that he did not; he thought he did; that was all. Then, suddenly, his fingers caught a rope; the face was still there; and the rope that heheld led to where it was caught between white, even teeth. 

A great wave hit him a buffet, full in the face; it cleared his senses, for a moment; yet perhaps it was more due to the feel of the rope in hisfingers.... Then he knew that it was she--that the face was real, and therope.... Went surging through his mind that she, taking the end of thesheet in her teeth, had swum to him, and to Schuyler--and that to herthey both owed their lives. 

She was beside him, now, swimming strongly. She gripped an arm of theunconscious Schuyler.... Together, she and Blake, dividing the weight, slowly, inch by inch, fought their way along the rope. At length theyreached the side of the swamped knockabout.... Blake crawled upon itsslippery deck. He lay for a moment, helpless; she supported Schuyler. Then he essayed to aid her again; and together they began to lift him outof the water, and to safety. 

Dr. DeLancey, from the after deck of "The Idlesse, " had seen theaccident. A minute later, he, John Stuyvesant Schuyler, Thomas CathcartBlake, the captain of "The Idlesse, " and two sailors were in thelaunch.... They reached the side of the knockabout as Blake and Kathrynwere dragging Jack Schuyler from the water; and they took him into theother boat. Blake, in his father's clutch, followed. At the same time, Dr. DeLancey leaned over to grasp Kathryn. But she shook her head, andsmiled, weakly:

"No, " she said. "I--I had to--to take off part of my clothes. I--"

Dr. DeLancey was an old man; some assert that he fell overboard. However, be that as it may, when he came to the surface, he had his arm aroundKathryn Blair, and she had his long coat draped around her slenderfigure.... And, as they lifted her to the deck, she fainted. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

AN INCIDENT. 

Destiny has a sense of humor; a sense of humor sardonic, it is true, cruel, sometimes grewsome; and yet it is a sense of humor. Otherwise--

There had been in France a man of the nobility--a man in whose veinsflowed the blood of three kings--a man handsome of face, graceful offigure, debonair--a man who had sinned much, and who had paid for thatsinning only in the sufferings of others; and they had been many. 

That man had many estates--many servants--many horses--much money. He hadbeen to Brittany twice; and only twice. Yet he went a third time, andafter five years. He went alone. He rode his horse through the narrow, brush-grown path by which had gone the stranger who had seen the nakedgirl, at the edge of the woodland pool, five years before. And he came, at length, to the edge of the wood, and to the clearing where lay thelittle hut, smoky, dirty, littered. 

He dismounted from his horse, there, why, he did not know. He wentforward, to the hut. 

An old woman, bent, white haired, sat on a rude chair, in the sun, besidethe door. She looked up as he approached. She, in no way, heeded theelaborate bow that he made--a graceful bow, low and sweeping, and yet asalutation sarcastic. 

"_Bon jour_, madame, " he began. "Madame looks well; but Death isnever far from the aged.... It should be a consolation, " looking abouthim, casually, "for one who lives as madame. "

The shrivelled old woman made no answer. 

The man went on, evenly, the while tapping; with the end of his slendercrop a booted leg:

"_Eh bien_, I have come, as you see. The paternal passion will notdown in the breast of a man domestically inclined. " He laughed. "I havebeen going about, seeing my families, " he smiled. "It has beeninteresting--drolly interesting. _Ma foi_!" Yet again he laughed, musically. "There have been pleadings, and revilings--tears, and curses--bended knees, and unbended arms. " He indicated with a graceful gesture adeep cut upon the back of his left hand. "It was a woman--a very prettywoman, " he explained. "At least, she had been pretty; and she was againpretty; when she did that. Her eyes--it was like lighting a fire in acave. Did you ever light a fire in a cave, madame?" he queried, gently, graciously; and then: "But, of course not! Women kindle their fires instoves--or fireplaces. It is for men to light the fires of caves. " Yetonce more he laughed, softly. 

The old woman, with the white, wispy hair, still was silent, motionless;though her eyes spoke. And that which they spoke, his eyes heard; andonce more he laughed. 

"I had a daughter here, " he continued. "Did I not? Or was it a son? _Mafoi_! It were difficult--ah, yes! I remember now! A daughter. Alittle, red, hairless, dirty thing she was. I have a great curiosity--the blood of three kings, you know; surely that would overcome the bloodof the good God knows how many peasant swine. She is not red, andhairless, and dirty now, in faith! She is clean-limbed, and straight, andwhite. A thousand louis to a sou, that she is!" ... His brow was creasedin the travail or retrospection. 

"I gave her a name, did I not?" he asked. "It seems to me--ah, yes. Rien, it was. A very pretty name--yes, an excellent name--meaning much andlittle--everything, and yet nothing. " He laughed at his own conceit, softly. "Tell me, where is she now? It might be that she is dead, eh?" Heeyed the old woman, closely; then he shook his head. "No, " he went on, "she is not dead. She--"

He had seen nothing, that is certain. Yet, suddenly he ceased in hisspeech; the smile left his lips; and slowly, very slowly, he turned. 

She was standing there, behind him, her eyes upon him.... She wasstraight, and slender, and perfectly formed. A single garment coveredher, running across one shoulder, reaching to her knees. It left onebreast exposed, and the white, slender legs and perfect feet. She stoodin a posture of infinite grace--of infinite poise. She looked at him. 

Then it was that the shrivelled old woman spoke. She said to the girl:

"_Votre pere_. "

And that was all. 

The child looked at the man; the man looked at the child; and so for along, long time they stood eye upon eye.... At length she began to smilea little, with her lips. But he did not smile.... 

After a long, long time, she took a slow, sinuous step toward him--thenanother.... He stepped back, still looking at her, his eyes still onhers.... He was back to the great cliff--the sheer cliff at the base ofwhich the huge seas ever beat in sullen, unceasing impotence.... Yet, another step she took, toward him.... 

His breath came chokingly, gaspingly. Yet another step he took, away fromher.... Yet another.... And then.... 

It was an accident, perhaps. Yes, of course; it must have been anaccident. He had not noticed.... For, as again she advanced, her eyes onhis, his eyes on hers, again he retreated. And suddenly, in utter silencesave for the rending of crumbling earth and uprooted grass, he slid overthe edge of the great rock.... Before the eyes of the girl lay only therestless, heaving sea. And beyond the dull gray of the horizon and thecupped sky. 

She turned, slowly, smiling a little. The shrivelled, shrunken old womanbent her head forward upon her flat breast, thrice. 

"_Bien_, " she muttered. And that was all. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

OF CERTAIN GOINGS. 

It so happened that, on the winter after Jack Schuyler and Tom Blakegraduated from college, death came to the big houses on the Avenue. Mrs. John Stuyvesant Schuyler went first; Mrs. Thomas Cathcart Blake went, almost, with her; for she had been by the bedside of her friend duringall her illness; and her friend, going, had bestowed upon her itshorrible heritage. And so she went, too. 

Their going left in the two great houses, monstrous voids that mightnever be filled. John Stuyvesant Schuyler and Thomas Cathcart Blake lovedtheir wives; and when a man has loved a woman, and that woman his wife, as these two had loved, it seems in a way to disrupt the cosmogony ofthings. It takes ambition from the brain, and the stamina from the spine;and the days are very, very long, while the nights are yet infinitelylonger. 

Thomas Cathcart Blake, in the vastness of all that now was not, forgot tocare for himself. He, who had been jovial, became silent. Some times, ofnights, he would walk alone for hours. The weather made no difference--infact, he seldom noticed what the weather was. He was an old man now, close to sixty.... 

Dr. DeLancey, on a night visit, met him one thick, sodden night at thecorner of Thirty-third Street and the Avenue, coming from the club. Thegood doctor bumbled out of his brougham, seized him by the arm and drewhim wet and dripping into its protected interior. 

"You fossiliferous-headed old chump, " he howled, exasperatedly. "You pin-headed old amphibian. If your sole and utter ambition is to get pneumoniaand die, I don't know any way in which you can better achieve yourpurpose. Sit down in the corner there and drink this, " he extracted fromhis case a little flask of brandy, "or I'll ask the horse to come in andbite you!"

"Turn around there, Mose!" he yelled, "and drive to Mr. Blake's house. "

Mose did so; and once there, the doctor, abusing and bullying hispatient, got him upstairs and into the bed, and then applied to theprotesting man who seldom had known what it was even to have a cold, allmanner of exposurial antidotes. 

"But the patient that you were going to see!" protested Thomas CathcartBlake. 

"No friend of mine, " returned Dr. DeLancey. "Only a patient. Patients areplenty, but friends are few. Let him get someone else, or die, as hechooses. It's none of my business. Here, drink this. " And he pouredbetween the protesting lips of Thomas Cathcart Blake a nauseating draughtof something that was most malodorous; for Dr. DeLancey was an allopath, and a good one. 

But, good as he was, he was too late. Pneumonia had been before him; and, two weeks later, in spite of all that the good doctor, and several otherequally good doctors, could do, Thomas Cathcart Blake died. And he didn'tseem sorry at going. 

Before he went, he called to him his son, and to that son he said manythings. Most of the things that he said are neither your business normine. But of the things that he said, we may know one. He wanted his sonto marry the daughter of the widow of Jimmy Blair. 

Young Tom Blake, between the sobs that are becoming a man, answered:

"I want to, dad. I've always wanted to. And I will, if I can. "

His father counselled, weakly:

"Get her honestly, boy, or not at all. If you get her, cherish her--giveher everything that there is in you to give--for there's nothing that aman can give that a good woman doesn't deserve. Now, God bless you, son--and--go. "

Tom Blake clung to the sheets. It was hard to lose such a father and sucha mother, and all within a six month. He cried, as you would cry, or I, and be glad that crying might be.... Dr. DeLancey, at length, managed toloosen his clenching fingers. Dr. DeLancey was crying, too; the tears randown his veined cheeks to lose themselves in the hair of his cheeks. Hetried to fume and fuss and splutter, as was his wont; but he couldn't. Hecould just put his hand around Tom Blake's heaving young shoulders, listen to his choking, broken sobs and say, over and over, and overagain: "There, there, my boy! There, there! There, there!"

It's pretty hard, you know, to lose a father and a mother like that, andall within six months. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER NINE. 

OF CERTAIN OTHER GOINGS. 

John Stuyvesant Schuyler's end was different. He was a man reserved--aman who thought much and told little. His illness baffled Dr. DeLancey atfirst; but then he knew what the disease was; although to it he couldgive no polysyllabic name of Latin, and for it he could prescribe noremedies; for the cure had gone from the hands of man into the hands ofGod. And to the hands of God, John Stuyvesant Schuyler went, at length, to find it; and who shall say that his quest was unsuccessful?

He, too, on his dying bed called his son to him; and to this son he saidmany things; and among these things was that it had ever been the dearestwish of her that had gone as well as of him that was about to go thattheir son should wed the daughter of the widow of Jimmy Blair. 

And Jack Schuyler, sobbing by the side of the great, mahogany bed in thegreat, dark room, even as he had sobbed beside the same bed in the sameroom so short a time before, promised, as Tom Blake had promised, thatall that he might do to bring to wife the girl his parents desired forhim as wife, he would do; and not from any obeisance to filial reasons, but because he wanted to--because he loved her--had always loved her. 

It was good old Dr. DeLancey who repeated his offices in this case, as inthe other; and he repeated them in the same way, patting the broad, throbbing young shoulders--reiterating with twitching lips, his "There, there, boy! There, there, there!"--reiterating it uselessly--and knowingthat it was uselessly that he reiterated--and yet helpless in the vastprofundity of helplessness that was his. 

And that same year did Dr. DeLancey lose yet another friend that was apatient--a patient that was a friend. It was the violet-eyed widow ofJimmy Blair. And all night long, from gray dusk until crimson dawn, Dr. DeLancey had sat in the darkened parlor of the warm little house of redbrick; he had sat in a rocking chair, and on either old knee he had helda sob-wracked, grief-torn, motherless girl, the one herself almost oldenough to be a mother. And again he had cried. Some doctors may losethrough oft-recurrence visualized their susceptibility to suffering; butDr. DeLancey was not of them. And when he stumbled on stiffened legs outof the darkened parlor and into the incongruous mellow radiance of thespring sunshine, his eyes were still wet, and he didn't care who knew it. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TEN. 

TWO BOYS AND A DOCTOR. 

Young Jack Schuyler and young Blake, a week later, went to see thedoctor in his office. He looked up from his paper. 

"Well?" he said. 

Tom Blake cleared his throat. 

"We wanted to ask you, Doctor, " he began, "if--"

"Eh, " assisted Jack Schuyler; "that is, we wanted to know--"

"--you see, that is--I--"

"--yes, we thought--"

"--you know, Mrs. Blair--"

The doctor rose; he stood between the two broad-shouldered, erect youngmen, placing a hand on the arm of each. 

"It's all right, " he assured them. "Don't you worry. "

"But, " protested Tom Blake, "we've got so much money, and they--Isn'tthere some way that you can fix it, doctor? You know how to do thesethings; and we're so helpless. "

"And, " elaborated Jack Schuyler, "they'd never suspect you, you know. "

"I tell you it's all fixed, " returned the doctor, with testiness thatfrom him was cordiality rampant. "Jimmy Blair left a very comfortableestate, in trust. They'll have all they want as long as they live. "

He didn't tell them--that is, not then, though later he did--that one ofthe last acts of John Stuyvesant Schuyler and Thomas Cathcart Blake hadbeen to walk solemnly, side by side, across the street and tell the widowof Jimmy Blair, that, in accordance with the ante-mortem desires of herlate husband, they had devoted a certain portion of the fortune that hehad left to the establishment of a trust fund that would yield her anannual income of $12, 000. He didn't tell them, then. Later he did. Hecouldn't help it. But at that time--

He slapped them both on the back, and sent them from the room. He stood, on the top step of the flight that led from sidewalk to front door, andwatched them swing, broad-shouldered, supple, erect, down the brightAvenue. 

"Now why in thunder, " he asked of himself, slowly, "didn't I ever getmarried?" And then, "Shut up, you old fool, " he soliloquized. And heturned, and, re-entering the house, slammed the door behind him. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

A PROPOSAL. 

Blake waited in the embrasure of the window, gazing down upon the Avenuebelow, with its confusion of moving vehicles and pedestrians. The Junesun was overhead, warming the earth with gentle, kindly glow. The breathof summer was in the air; it came to him, brushing the curtains againsthim, cooling his brow. It was grateful to his nostrils, and to his lungs;and he took of it a great, deep breath. His broad shoulders squared; hisdeep, full chest heaved. 

An omnibus stopped on the corner. He watched the horses throw themselvesagainst their collars; he watched the bulky vehicle gather headway, andmove on, with ever increasing momentum, through the maze of brougham andcab and coach and landau. 

As the coach was lost to view there came steps, light and quick, upon thestairs; the door opened and there stood before him the daughter of JimmyBlair. She had been abroad, under chaperonage, for a year.... 

He did not know that she could be so beautiful--he did not know thatanyone could ever hope to be as beautiful as was she who stood beforehim. Violet eyes were no deeper--lips no more red--teeth no whiter--norwas the perfect oval of her sun-kissed cheek any the more perfect. Yet, there was something--the indefinable something that marks the transitionof a beautiful girl from beautiful girlhood to glorious womanhood.... Hefelt a strange emptiness within him; it was almost as though he wereappalled by so much beauty--so much glory. 

There was a gladness--a natural, unaffected, real gladness in her violeteyes that glowed in greeting. She thrust forth a tiny white hand.... Hehad been wont to kiss her, on meeting and on parting. Now it neveroccurred to him. 

"Tom!" she cried. "I'm so, so glad to see you again. It's been terriblylonely. As fast as I'd begin to learn one language, they'd move mesomewhere else and I'd have to start all over again! And now I hardlyknow whether or not I know any language at all! ... Where's Jack? Iexpected that, of course, he would come with you. "

"He'll be here bye-and-bye, Kate.... " Blake replied. 

She seated herself, crossing one knee above the over, interlocking aboutit slender, white fingers. 

"You must have so much to tell me, Tom!" she bubbled, all animation, gladness, eagerness. "Begin! Please, begin! And then I'll tell youeverything. Oh, isn't it exciting to go away and come back again!"

"I have a lot to tell you, " he said, slowly. 

"Why, you speak so seriously, Tom. Aren't you glad to see me?"

"I'm afraid nobody but myself knows how glad.... Kate, I hardly know howto begin what I want to say. I--it's hard; not having seen you so long, makes it harder. I--"

She cried, in pretty amazement: "But what in the world is it? Tom! Youalmost frighten me! I haven't done anything wrong, have I? Shall I be putto bed without my supper? ... Do speak, Tom. Tell me what all this mysteryis. "

Still slowly, hands folding and unfolding, dark eyes upon hers of violet, he continued:

"Kate, Jack Schuyler loves you; and I lo--"

He had intended to say more; and what that more was one would but havehad to look into his eyes to tell; but he had been looking into hers; hehad seen the gleam that had leaped there at his words; and that is why hedid not finish. 

"Tom!" she exclaimed, softly.... And then, "Did Jack tell you that--himself?"

He nodded. 

"He was afraid to tell me himself?"

Again he nodded. It was not so. But he lied; as would you, or I, had webeen as good a man as he. He had come there knowing that a woman lovesbut one man. He had come there knowing that, if Schuyler were not the manshe loved, thereby he would be saved, and she would be saved, muchunpleasantness. He had hoped that it was he himself that she loved. Yethe had feared that it was not. And he had known that whether it were hewho asked, or Schuyler, or any man, it would make no difference; for whena woman like that loves a man, it is that man alone she loves; and therest means nothing. No thought of an unfair advantage was in his mind. Insuch a case there could be no such thing as that. It was only whether ornot she loved one of them, and if so, which one; and beyond that therewas nothing--nothing except that he wished to take from Schuyler anyunhappiness that might lie there for him. For he was a friend such as fewmen may ever have and, having, may pray to keep. 

And now he knew the answer. It was in the depths of the violet eyes--inthe eagerness of lips and lithe, supple body--it was of her--about her. Blake's lips became thin; his jaws set; his eyes half shut. To have losta father, and a mother, and such a girl as was she, and all within aneighteen month, was bitter, indeed. 

He heard her say, as from a great distance:

"It was fine of you to come like this, Tom.... I do love Jack; I thoughtonce, that I loved you, Tom.... That was strange, wasn't it? It's strangeto sit here now, with you, telling you of it.... Though, of course, youdon't care.... He will come soon, won't he? You don't know how I'vemissed him, Tom.... It would be a strange situation, wouldn't it, if wehadn't known one another so well, and cared for one another, so deeply insuch a friendly, brother-and-sisterly sort of way.... I think, in someways, I ought to be angry with Jack for not coming himself.... But it'sas though you were my big brother, Tom.... You know how Jack feels towardme; and so you are anxious to act as sort of a buffer, in case everythingisn't--eh--as it should be.... It was fine of you, Tom; and you know howI appreciate it! ... "

What else she said, he did not know. It seemed a thousand, thousand yearsere he rose to his feet. He was suffering--When a woman loves, herintuition is dead.... 

At length he found himself on the street. But the sunshine was gone, andthe air was dead.... 

He found Schuyler, and told him.... He watched him leap through the door, forgetting his hat--heard him pounding down the hall--heard the streetdoor as it slammed behind him. And then--

It's pretty hard, you know, to lose a father, and a mother, and such agirl as the daughter of Jimmy Blair; and all within an eighteen month. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

A FOREIGN MISSION

In the next few years, God was indeed good to John Schuyler. Health hekept; honors came to him, and the respect of men and of women. There werethose who loved him, many; and of those who hated him there were a few;which is well, inasmuch as the hatred of some men may be the highestpraise--the highest favor--that they have to bestow. 

A child came to them, at length--to him and to the daughter of JimmyBlair; and that child was as like to the daughter of Jimmy Blair as thedaughter had been like her mother. 

A part of the time they lived in the city; but most of their days werespent out at the Larchmont place, on the Sound, that John StuyvesantSchuyler had built so long ago. And there they were very, very happy. 

The quiet, peaceful beauty of "Grey Rocks" more than ever appealed to thesoul of Tom Blake as he stood upon the bridge of his yacht, "TheVagrant, " and watched the ever-enlarging lawn apparently rush toward him. He closed his eyes, a little. The sun was very bright.... He turnedtoward the Long Island shore, hazy and unreal in the mists of themorning.... When he turned back again, the huge, sea-going craft, a thingof glistening white and shining brass, was making a wide, graceful sweepin the churning water, and the house had ceased to rush down upon him. Itnow stood inviting, beckoning, as close at hand as it were safe to be. 

A launch was lowered, and the owner's gangway dropped. And in anothermoment, Blake stood, balancing himself nicely against the rolling of thelittle craft, as it rushed through the blue-gray water toward the landingpier at the foot of the velvet lawn. 

Like one who, in haste, yet longs to loiter Blake made his way across thesward to where, jutting out from a corner of the house, a tiny bay windowthrust itself forth among a confusion of tangled nasturtiums, copper-colored, yellow, crimson son. With the privileged assurance of one longknown and long loved, he thrust open the left hand window, which extendedto the ground, and entered the room. 

There came a little, delighted cry of surprise; a rather uncertain, "Oh, Mr. Tom!" and in another instant he was enveloped in a tiny cloud of laceand ribbons and primly starched linen while two bare, brown little legswaved wildly about his breast, a pair of very sticky lips were setagainst his own, and his neck found itself in the clasp of tiny fingersthat had known orange-juice and oat-meal and sugar--and possibly jam--since they had had intimate association of water. 

At length he set her down upon the floor, gently. 

"Well, well, little partner, " he said, grinning sociably, "that mostsurely was a succulent salute.... I perceive from the remainder of yourrepast" his eyes had fallen upon the little breakfast table and the over-turned high-chair which, with infinite dignity unbent, the butler wasrescuing from prostration "that you like a little oatmeal on your sugar. "

"I do, " confessed the child, friendly. "But Woberts doesn't. Do you, Woberts?" Without waiting for the corroboration of the somewhat perturbedRoberts, she turned again to Blake. "I like heaps and heaps of sugar.... Woberts gives it to me when there isn't anyone looking, don't you, Woberts?" And then, very seriously, she added, "I like Woberts"

Blake laughed, a low, rumbling, ringing laugh. 

"I don't blame you, " he said. "I used to have sugar once.... I likedthose who gave it to me. "

He picked her up and set her again in the high-chair, moving it close tothe table with its dainty china and center-piece of pink carnations. 

The child looked up at him, half wondering. She was pretty--very pretty--with serious, round violet eyes, sun-kissed cheeks, and hair of the softbrown that is of kin to gold. 

"Don't you get any sugar now?" she asked, very seriously. 

He shook his head. 

"Not any?" she persisted. "Never?"

"Not any, " he replied, gravely. "Never. "

Swiftly she picked up the little silver sugar jar; she cast aninvestigative eye up at the solemn visage of the butler. 

"Mr. Tom can have some of ours, can't he, Woberts?" she inquired, gravelytendering the bowl to Blake, who accepted it just as gravely. 

"I thank you, " he said, very seriously. "It is kind of you.... But, doyou know, I was speaking rather of figurative sugar. "

The child shook her head, perplexedly. 

"I don't think we have that kind, " she ventured. "We have powdered sugar, and loaf sugar, and gran--granulated, " she syllablized it, calling it"gran-u-lat-ed"--"and we have pulverized sugar, too. But I don't believewe have fig--the kind you said.... I'm sorry. "

He smiled a little--a smile of the lips. 

"It doesn't matter, " he said, slowly. "Really it doesn't. You know Ihaven't had any for so long that I've quite forgotten the taste of it.... Where's daddy this morning?"

"Daddy and mother dear are saying goodbye to Auntie, " the child replied, making in the oatmeal before her a miniature Panama Canal and watchingthe thick cream trickle slowly from the Atlantic to the Pacific. 

Blake turned to the butler. 

"How is Mrs. VanVorst this morning, Roberts?" he asked. "Still very ill, sir, " returned the butler. "Very ill indeed. "

"Not dangerously?"

"We 'opes not, sir. But she's still very low, sir. "

Blake turned one fist in the palm of the other hand. 

"Why, I though from the wireless that Mr. Schuyler sent me that she wasgetting along splendidly. I--"

He stopped, abruptly. There had entered the breakfast room the wife ofJohn Schuyler. She saw Blake and came forward, hand outstretched, welcomein her eyes. She had come to be very like her child--her child andSchuyler's--had the daughter of Jimmy Blair--she was like her child grownup, glorified into womanhood. Her hair was the same gold-brown, a littleunruly, clinging against her temples, nestling at neck-nape. Her eyeswere the same deep violet--perhaps a little darker--a little softer--alittle less wondering; for years bring knowledge, and when one begins toknow, then one must cease, somewhat, to wonder. She had the soft, brown, sun-kissed cheeks of her child, too, rounded and smooth, with the redblood tinting them to a delicate pink. She had the finely-modelled, cleanly-cut nose, and the expressive, sensitive mouth with its red lips, and white teeth. And her chin was both beautiful and firm. 

She moved lithely across the room to where Blake stood. He took her hand. 

"Tom, " she began, cordially. Her voice was low and deep, and very soft. "We're so glad to see you.... You got Jack's message, then? We wereafraid you wouldn't. "

Blake nodded. 

"Caught it off Point Judith, " he replied. "You should have seen us 'boutship and come spattering down the Sound. Those blockade-running personscould have gained points from us We burned the bulwarks, the cargo andmost of my cigars. It looks as though we did so wisely, too; for wehaven't much time to spare, have we?"

"We leave in half an hour, " she returned. "Sit down, Tom.... Jack will behere soon. "

"But what's it all about?" he asked. He sank into a chair, elbows onknees, fingers clasped. 

"Jack's trip abroad?"

He nodded. 

"It's something at the Court of St. James. I don't know exactly; but it'svery imposing, and important, and epoch-making. Jack spent all dayyesterday with the President and Secretary of State. "

"Well, well, well! That certainly is immense!" She was standing besidethe table. Slowly her fingers plucked a carnation from the cluster beforeher. Violet eyes were upon it. 

"Is it?" she asked, slowly. 

"Isn't it?" he queried, surprised. 

She paused a moment; and then, swiftly:

"Oh, I don't know. I--"

Blake waited. But she did not go on. At length he spoke:

"How long will he be gone?"

"Maybe two months, " she returned.... "It will be the first time thatwe've been apart for more than a day or two since we were married.... I--I suppose that's silly, isn't it?

"If that's silly, it's too bad anyone ever gets sensible, " was hisassuring reply. 

She had risen. Slowly she went around behind the little high chair. Leaning lithely over, she laid her cheek against that of her child, soft, rounded arms pressing her close. And then she looked at Blake, eyes toeyes. 

"I don't like it, Tom, " she said, very slowly. 

"But, " he protested, "it's a big honor--a great honor--an appointmentlike this, from the President. "

"Yes, " she answered, thoughtfully. "It is a big honor. And I suppose thatI should be very, very happy--Of course, in a way, I am. " Then, suddenly:"But I'm not. I don't like it, Tom. I try to like it. I tell myself thatI ought to like it. And yet I can't. Happiness is more than honors; andwe are happy here--as happy as it is possible for two people" her eyes, laden of the mother love, fell upon the child that was hers, "for threepeople, " she corrected, "to be. We have everything we need--everything weought to want. I'd rather have just peace, and quiet and contentment, than all the honors there are. "

"And yet--"

"I mustn't stand in the way of his advancement, you mean. I know that;and I haven't.... You know he left it all to me; and I said, 'Go. ' Ithurt, too, Tom.... I didn't want that he should go. I don't know why.... I--" she stopped. The child had finished her oatmeal. Lithely, themother, stooping, lifted her from the chair, held her close for a tinyminute and then, kissing her, set her down upon the floor. 

"Run along, dearie, " she directed. "Tell Mawkins to get you dressed. "

She watched the graceful, pretty child until she vanished through thedoor. Slowly she walked to the window. Hands clasped behind her shestood, gazing across the sunlit lawn--across the dancing, flashing watersof the Sound. A big, black schooner, a mountain of bellying whitenesssuperimposed upon a tiny streak of hull, was standing off for the LongIsland shore. Her eyes followed it. 

Blake, lids half closed, as a man who seeks within the denseness ofmasculine brain for something that lieth not therein, considered for along moment, eyes upon the perfect figure of perfect womanhood beforehim. At length he spoke. 

"It doesn't seem to me, " he began, "that it means either very much orvery little. " He went on, more lightly: "Two months isn't such a longtime, you know, after all. He'll soon be back, laden with honors. Andthen, because he was raised on the seacoast and doesn't know thedifference between a Lima bean and a bole weevil, they'll probably makehim Secretary of Agriculture. "

She was still gazing at the vanishing sail; she had not heard his words. 

He leaned back in his chair, a little, watching her. At length he sighed, and murmured to himself:

"To him that hath, shall be given all they can take away from him thathathn't. "

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

THE GOING. 

John Schuyler had come to be a big man and a broad one--big in the greatthings of life that sometimes are so small, big in the small things oflife that sometimes are so great. Broad of mind, as well as broad ofshoulder he was. Forty years of age now, his hair, by the habit ofthought, was tinged with gray at the temples; yet skin and complexionwere as those of a boy. Quick in movement, agile, alert, thrilling withvitality and virility, his pleasures were, as they had always been, thepleasures of the great out-of-doors. A yachtsman, his big yawl, the"Manana, " was known in every club port from Gravesend to Bar Harbor. Hemotored. He rode. He played tennis, and golf, and squash, and racquets. He was an expert swimmer, a skilful fencer, a clever boxer. And, morewonderful than the combination of these things was the fact that he foundtime away from his work to do them all, and to enjoy them with theyouthful, contagious, effervescent enthusiasm of a man of half his age. 

It showed in his well-set-up, well-poised body. It showed in theexpression of his clear-cut bronzed features. It showed in every littleshift of pose, every little turn of his well-shaped head, as he stood, leaning gracefully against the ledge of the bay window, talking withBlake; for Mrs. Schuyler and Muriel had gone to make ready for the tripto the city, and to the dock. 

"I don't like to leave it, Tom, " he said slowly, his eyes roaming overthe bright, little room. "I don't like to leave it even to hobnob withcrowned heads, and to take tea with dukes, earls, princes and kings, tosay nothing of mere lords. My world is right here; and it's all the worldI want, Tom. It's bounded on the south by the sound, on the north by theproperty of the municipality, on the east and west by somebody else'sworlds, and above by eternity. " Blake lighted a cigar. 

"Then what are you going for?" he asked, practically. 

Schuyler shrugged his shoulders. 

"I wonder, " he replied. 

"Want me to tell you?" queried the other. 

"I should be obliged, " he said with a smile. 

"Well, " began Blake, placing finger ends to finger ends, judicially. "Inthe first place, you're ambitious. You like the plaudits of the populace. You see here a chance to get about a million per cent on your investment. Whereby you stick two months time and a little effort into theproposition and draw down a position that means sitting beside the chiefexecutive and trying to look as though you knew what he was talkingabout. Also a chance to live in Washington and cut figure eights in thediplomatic circles. All of which is perfectly natural, nothing at all toyour discredit, and furthermore shows whence come the few good men, who, sticking their heels in, are trying to keep the country from going to thedemnition bow-wows. Am I right?"

Schuyler watched a little ring of blue smoke rising to the ceiling. 

"No, " he answered, slowly, "you're wrong. I care nothing for the plauditsof the populace. I'm ambitious, in a way; but when that way requires meto leave the people--the things--that I love, then ambition chameleonizesand I become ambitious antithetically. Furthermore, I loathe the climateof Washington; and all the society I want, I can find right in my home--with the exception of yourself. "

"Which is not so much of an exception, after all, " commented Blake;"because, when it comes to sticking around, I'm the original young Mr. Glue. "

"You know, Tom, " went on Schuyler, "I don't like to take any chances witha happiness such as mine.... I wonder, sometimes, if I really know howhappy I am. One can get used to happiness, you know, just as to otherthings--except unhappiness. "

"Hum, " snorted Blake. "I've got used to that, even. Dad--burn it all, nothing ever goes right with me--except money; and that's no good withoutthe rest. Money is merely an agreeable accessory. To have money andnothing with it is like having an olive and no cocktail to put it in. IfI eat what I like, I get sick. I'm always either forty pounds too heavyor twenty pounds too light. I'm continually dieting or training andwondering why in Sam Hill I'm doing either. I have to live alone--tospend my evening at theatres or clubs--I am a man who would willinglygive up all his clubs for one large pair of pink carpet slippers, and thetheatres for a corpulent, aristocratic Maltese cat, with a baritonepurr. "

Schuyler, immersed in his own thoughts, had not been listening. 

Blake eyed him, whimsically. 

"Ain't I the gabby thing, though?" he remarked, at length. And then:

"A couple of million dollars for your thoughts, sweet chuck. "

"I was thinking how near I came to turning this all down--and how I'msort of sorry that I didn't. "

"Nell's better, isn't she?" queried Blake, suddenly. 

"Better, yes; but not out of danger. Why?"

"Why, " returned Blake, "it just occurred to me--see here, old man, I'venothing much to do. Can't I stick around here? And then you can take Kateand Muriel with you. "

"That's good of you, Tom, " said Schuyler, smiling a little. "But abachelor around a sick room is of about as much use as an elephant at apink tea.... No, Kate and I have talked it all over, and, under theconditions, she has decided to stay at home. It'll be mighty hard, though--mighty hard.... It must be nearly time to leave. "

Blake looked at his watch. 

"Nine fifty, " he said. "What time does the train go?"

Schuyler did not answer; for just then there entered the room a tall, clean-cut young fellow of thirty, dressed with quiet immaculacy. It wasParks, John Schuyler's secretary. 

To him Schuyler turned. 

"Is everything ready, Parks?" he asked. 

"Everything, " was the reply. "And the car is waiting. "

"Mrs. Schuyler?"

"Is in the hall. "

"You have the documents that we selected?"

"Here, sir. " Parks touched with the fingers of his right hand the littlesatchel of black seal that he carried beneath his left arm. 

"How much time have we?"

"We should leave within a very few minutes now. "

"Very well. We'll be right there. "

As Parks left the room, Blake turned to his friend. 

"Jack, " he exclaimed, "it makes me sore every time I look at you. Why inthunder can't I get in once in a while? Nothing would suit me better thanto go over and buy the king a glass of half and half and mix around withthe diplomats and settle the affairs of nations. But they wouldn't let mesend cucumber seeds to the mattress-faced constituency of Skaneatelescounty if I should offer to pay for the job. I've got everything I don'twant--except the measles--and everything I do want, I can't get. I want ahome. What have I? A box stall with nobody in it but a man to curry me;and he's curried me so often that he's lost all respect for me. I want tostop being merely ornamental and become useful; but when I say so, everyone hands me the jocose and jibing jeer and proceeds to lock upanything that seems to have any relation whatsoever to industry, commerce, or utility of any kind. And the best I can get is the festiveroof garden, the broad speed-way, and the bounding wave. I wish I wererunning this universe. I ain't mentioning no names, but there's a certainsvelte party on my left, whose initials are J. S. , who wouldn't have amonopoly on all the good things in this world. "

Schuyler, filling his cigar case from a silver humidor on the sideboard, laughed. 

"There's nothing the matter with you, Tom, " he said, assuringly, "exceptthat you have too much time and too much money. Stop your kicking. "

Blake grinned. 

"Let me rave if I want to, " he requested. "Let me have a good time. Youknow as well as I do that I don't mean it, and you know that I'm moreglad for your success and happiness and prosperity than I would be for myown; and that's being some glad. " He crossed to where Schuyler stood andplaced his arm about his shoulders, and continued, "good old Jack. Bullyfor you. You deserve everything that you have ever won. I'd say I lovedyou like a brother if it weren't for the fact that I never had a brotheryet that I could sit through a meal with without wanting to hit him underthe ear with the side-board. "

[Illustration: "BYE, LITTLE SWEETHEART"]

The room had become suddenly dark. Came almost without the warning ofpreliminary rumble--almost without the precursor of sullen flashing--agreat peal of heavy thunder. Schuyler turned. Blake sprang to his feet. 

Through the bow window, the lawn lay dun and dark. Beyond, the Sound, flat and heavy, seemed as gray oil. The Long Island shore had beenswallowed in the gloom. Above all was a great, black cloud, rimmed ofsilver and of gold, a low cloud, thick and threatening. And yet to oneside and the other--in fact save right in its ominous path, one could seethe sunlight on water and on land. Then came the rain, and the wind, andwith them incessant flashings, incessant bellowings, wild protests of theoutraged God of storms. Trees bent and groaned. Flowers, torn from theirtender stalks, lay prostrate in puling puddles. And quick-born waveslashed themselves spitefully against the pier and breakwater down beyondthe lawn, unseen in the swirling, screaming wildness of it all. 

Upon one another Schuyler and Blake turned wondering, amazed eyes. In itssuddenness, the storm was unbelievable. They stood, side by side, gazingout into the storm. 

Suddenly, into the hand of Schuyler stole tiny, frightened fingers. Itwas Muriel. 

"I'm frightened, daddy dear, " she cried. 

Schuyler gathered her into his arms. 

"Don't be frightened, little sweetheart, " he said, soothingly. "It's justa summer storm.... Where's mother?"

"Here, Jack. " Her voice came from at his very side. "Isn't it terrible!We can't go in this. "

Holding his child close against his breast, her cheeks against his, hergold-brown hair mixing with the gray of his temples, he said:

"Not you and Muriel, of course. But I must. It won't last long; you andTom can come on a later train. Parks can come with you. There'll beplenty of time. It's only that I have urgent business that I must attendto before sailing. "

In a swirl of wind and rain, Parks stepped into the room, and addressingSchuyler, said:

"We should be starting, sir. "

Schuyler nodded. The butler was holding his coat in readiness. He thrusthis arms within the sleeves and, with a shrug of broad shoulders, stoodprepared for departure. 

Lifting the little girl that was his own, and of the woman he loved, heheld her for a brief moment tight to his breast. In her little ear hewhispered:

"Bye, little sweetheart. "

She clung to him, little hands about his neck.... He set her down againupon the floor. She ran to Blake, waiting. 

The deep lids of Kathryn were half veiling the violet eyes--eyes moist, and very soft. There was a little tremor of the sensitive lips. Schuylerdrew her to him, so that she faced him, and whispered:

"Au revoir, big sweetheart.... Don't you dare to cry.... I know how ithurts; but be a brave little woman.... I'll make my stay just as short aspossible. "

"You'll cable?" she asked, tremulously. 

"Cable?" he repeated. "I'll keep that wireless snapping all the wayacross.... Now let me see you smile. "

She tried. It was a wan, sad little smile--a smile that was close of kinto a tear. She clung to him for a moment; then her fingers loosened theirhold; she stepped back, white teeth holding nether lip. It was bitterlyhard. 

He looked; and with more understanding than many a man might have, turnedswiftly. 

Parks stepped forward. 

"Shan't I go with you?" he asked. 

Schuyler shook his head. 

"No, " he returned. "Come with Mrs. Schuyler--meet me at the boat. I'mgoing alone. "

He thrust open the door. Came a wail of wind, a swirl of rain; and then, as he crossed the threshold, the very heaven itself seemed to be reftapart with a great, wild flash of lightning--the roar of the thunder wasappalling. 

Schuyler started back. He forced a laugh. 

"Were I a superstitious man, " he remarked, "I might take that for anomen. "

And then he was gone. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

YOUNG PARMALEE--AND THE WOMAN. 

He came slinking down the deck of the liner, furtive of eye, uneven oftread. A young man he was--and yet old; for while his body told of youth, his face bespoke age--the unnatural forced age--the hot-housed growth ofthey who live in the froth of life--in the froth that it is hard to tellfrom the scum. 

He was tall, and well-set-up. His clothes hung well about his body; theywere of fine texture and make, yet unpressed, uncared for. He had beenhandsome; but he was no longer; for the eyes looked forth from hollows inhis face. His cheeks were sunken. His lips were leaden. He was unshaven, ungroomed, unkempt. 

Looking nervously, this way and that, he made his way among the jostlingthrongs to one of the passages. Searching with sunken eyes for a numbereddoor, he knocked upon it with the knuckles of his left hand; his rightrested at his side, covered with a handkerchief of white silk.... Heknocked; and stepped back, quickly. There was no answer; the doorremained shut. He stepped forward again, thrusting the door wide open. The stateroom was empty. He turned. Out upon the deck he strode; then, starting back, he concealed himself in the passageway that he had justleft. 

Coming down the deck was a woman, a woman darkly beautiful, tall, lithe, sinuous. Great masses of dead black hair were coiled about her head. Hercheeks were white; her lips very red. Eyes heavy lidded looked out incold, inscrutable hauteur upon the confusion about her. She wore a gownthat clung to her perfectly-modelled figure--that seemed almost a part ofher being. She carried, in her left arm, a great cluster of crimsonroses. 

Down the deck she came, slowly, as a queen going to her throne. Sheturned.... 

The man hiding in the passageway confronted her. His eyes were burning asof a fever; his whole body shook.... She remained calm, cold, unmoved. 

At length, the woman spoke, half smiling:

"You? ... I thought that we were through. "

His voice was tense, strained, unnaturally pitched. The words camebetween clenched teeth. 

"You did, eh? You thought you'd throw me over, as you did Rogers, and VanDam, and the rest of them.... But it won't work--you Vampire!"

Swiftly, he tore from his right hand, the handkerchief that covered it. There was in it a revolver. The bright mouth of the weapon sprang to thewhite forehead of The Woman. 

Yet she did not start--she made no sound, no movement. The smile stilldwelt upon her lips. It was only in the eyes that a difference came--inthe black, inscrutable eyes. They gleamed now, heavy-lidded as before. Their gaze was fixed straight into the sunken, hate-lit eyes of the manbefore her, a man who, but for her, might still have been a boy. She bentforward a little.... Her forehead, between the eyes, was now touching thebright muzzle of the weapon. The finger on the trigger trembled--trembled but did not pull. 

Came slowly, sibillantly, from between the smiling red lips:

"Kiss me, My Fool!"

Her eyes still fixed him.... The hand holding the revolver trembled moreviolently. Slowly the mouth of the weapon sank to lips--to chin--tobreast.... It hovered there a moment, just over the heart--the fingertwitched a little--twitched but did not pull. It was a finger governed bya vanished will in a shrivelled brain. 

Then, suddenly, the revolver leaped--the finger pulled. With a shrillscreech of hopeless, hideous imprecation, a shriek that died still-born, the bullet pierced flesh and bone and brain; and that which had been aman that should have been a boy, lurched drunkenly and lay a crumplednothing upon the deck. There was blood upon the deck--beside the hem ofthe crimson gown, near to the crimson heel of her shoe. And the gown wascaught beneath the body of the boy that was. 

She looked down upon him. The smile not even yet had left her lips. Witha lithe movement, infinitely graceful, she drew away, disengaging the hemof her crimson garment.... A crimson petal from the great cluster in herarms fell upon it, to lie upon the hollow whiteness of the upturnedcheek.... And that was all. 

A man--a man that should have been a boy--was gone.... Hurrying, horror-ridden passengers found him there, alone. The doctor came, and stewards, and the captain. They lifted him, and bore him away. Of those who live inthe froth of things--the froth that is often the scum--there wereseveral. One of these knew him. 

"It's Young Parmalee, " he informed them. 

And that was all he knew; that, and possibly some other things that arelittle. But of the great things, he knew nothing. For of these greatthings, God has told us but little. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

A WARNING. 

The storm that had come hissing across the Sound did not last long. Itsvery 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 onthe next train; for he himself was forced by the exigency of his missionto reach the city at least two hours before sailing time. 

The car, returning from the trip to the depot, was again called intoservice. Parks, as well, had waited, and went with them. 

Reaching the city, Blake's machine, for which he had telephoned fromLarchmont, was waiting; and in this they made the journey through thetraffic-thronged New York streets, to the dock; a route that leads onefrom wealth to poverty, from respectability to license, from well--doingto ill-doing, and through all that lies between. 

The dock, beside which lay tugging at her cables the huge liner, wasconfusion thrice confused. Jolting cabs, rattling taxis, smooth-runningprivate cars, drays and vans, added to the tumult caused by the hundred--the thousands--of hurrying, scurrying humanity. Came the calls of excitedpassengers, 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 itscrowded 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 laytherein a great mass of crimson roses; scattered amid the toilet articlesand accessories of a woman. Passing through the crowds of the deck, hehad heard, also, The Man Who Knew telling another man, who did not knowof Young Parmalee. It had been but a word. But it had been a word thathad found fructification and meaning in the sight of a deck steward, witha bucket, mopping up something from the deck, just outside the littlepassageway. 

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 momentby 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. Yetthe 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 onhim, laying there with his brains spattered on the deck and she laughed, sir.... God, sir! She laughed.... " He struggled to his feet and pulledhis forelock. He said in altered tones: "Beg pardon, sir. But a man can'tbe 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 thewife 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 forcedlightness:

"Oh, he has plenty of time. Half an hour at least. Why, once I lost fiftythousand in the market, broke my steering gear running over a fatpoliceman, was arrested, taken to court and bailed out and all withintwenty 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 littlebrain. 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 lookingin 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 wherehis stateroom is. These boats are very confusing. I'll go fetch him. "

Blake disappeared in the throngs upon the deck. Muriel turned to hermother. 

"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 thelibrary, 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 seewhich 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 addedsuddenly. 

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Wouldn't it be nice if we were both twins! Then half of us could go withdaddy, 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 strongarm about his wife, the other about his child. 

"I've some bully news for you, Kate, dear! The President has so arrangedthat 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 withyou 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 farefor 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, withlightness born of great earnestness:

"Take good care of them while I'm gone, won't you, old man. By Jove, I'dlike to chuck it all, even at the last minute as it is, and stay athome--"

Facing his wife, child and friend, his eyes were up the broad deck. Cametoward him The Woman--The Woman known of The Man Who Knew, and of YoungParmalee. 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 herindolent, sinuous walk. Her eyes were upon him; and that was all--darkeyes, glowing, inscrutable, beautiful with the beauty that was hers. Andhis eyes were on hers.... She turned up the narrow passageway in whichlay Schuyler's stateroom.... Blake saw, too. He was not of those who livein the froth of things--that froth of things that is the scum. But he wasof the world; and they who are of the world have knowledge of all thatthat world contains--of all, that is, that it is for such as they toknow. 

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 willtake 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 yourown. "

 * * * * *

Waiting to take farewell of those one loves is indeed a sweetness tingedwith bitterness. And if one loves very, very much, it is sometimes abitterness tinged with sweetness. Kathryn, lower lip clenched betweenwhite teeth, herself unhappy would have kept that unhappiness as far aspossible hers alone. There were those on board that she knew. To them shewent; for there was still, since time was short, too much of it. Murielshe took with her. 

Schuyler, in his eyes all the virile love that such as he feel fortheirs, watched her vanish amid the throngs. Then, sauntering to therail, leaned against it.... There came into his eyes a look ofabstraction, of aberration, of puzzlement. Blake stood watching him--stood for a long time, silent, unmoving.... At length he moved toSchuyler'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 couldhave 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 halfturned. "It's only my natural nervousness at leaving Kathryn and Muriel--and the importance of my mission. By the way, " he asked, abruptly, "whatwas 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 disgracedhimself, and his people, for a woman?"

Blake nodded, and continued:

"Did you happen to notice the woman who passed a moment ago?--the onecarrying 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 thefool, " he nodded toward the drying spot upon the deck. "And there, " heindicated, with a backward toss of his well-shaped head, the corridordown which had passed the woman, "is his lady fair. I've even heard, " hewent on, "that she used to call him her 'fool, ' quoting the poem. Prettylittle conceit, eh?" His jaw, firm, square, set tight. Then, with a touchof deeper feeling. "She murdered that boy just as surely as if she hadcut his throat; and the worst of it is that she can't be held legallyguilty--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 formankind.... If what you say about that woman be true, she ought to betaken by the hair of the head and dragged through the hell she has builtfor others. " His brows were knitted; he was gazing with unseeing eyesupon 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 aneminently suitable recreation for a debonair young man with a shatteredreputation, a cast iron stomach, several millions of dollars and noobjections to staying up by the year. " He turned a little, towardSchuyler. "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 falsesentiment that forbids one to speak the unpleasant truth of a deadperson. If a man were a fool while alive, his dying doesn't absolve himof 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 selfdestruction. " He was silent for a moment; at length he went on: "A man iswhat he is, and he was what he was. His dying can change nothing of hisliving. "

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, dearheart--sweeter, even than are these. " For he had opened it, and takenforth the tiny bouquet of forget-me-nots that had nestled in the depthsof 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 asilly.... Now we'll all go down to the gangway, where the big hugsare.... Then I'll rush back here and we can wave one another good-bye andtry to imagine I'm going only over to Staten Island for the afternoon. "

Came farewells at the gangway--farewells of tears, of heart-aches, ofquivering lips and moist lids--of laughter quavering and smiles unreal--of the good hand clasp that good men know--the touch of wet, clinginglips. 

Schuyler came rushing down the deck, keeping to that part of the shipthat 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, wavingto him. He could see the violet eyes, tear laden, the lithe, slender, figure of his wife in the glory of her perfect womanhood--the sturdylittle body of his child, barelegged, browned, hair tumbled, wavingfrantically a tiny little square of muslin and shouting farewells at thehighest pitch of childish treble. He could see his friend--the friendsuch as few men may ever have, and, having, may pray to hold--broadshoulders protecting wife and child from the pressing throngs--he couldhear his voice booming through all the heterogeneous medley of sound. 

His voice choked. Words that he was crying--words lost in all theconfusion of sound and movement--stuck in his throat. Moisture came tohis eyes.... He turned a little.... Came into range of his vision a tinystreak of shifting crimson. He looked. 

She was sitting there, on the deck--she--The Woman. She lay back in herchair, long, lithe limbs covered with a rug of crimson and black anddull, dull green. She was dangling gently, sensuously, the great clusterof scarlet roses that she held, now and again bringing them to wheretheir fragrance would reach her delicately-chiseled nose, imperious, haughty.... They looked startlingly red against her cheek--like bloodupon the snow.... She was looking at him.... There was no movement, savethe even, languorous swing of the crimson blossoms. Lips, vivid red, weremotionless, half parted in a little, inscrutable smile.... She waslooking at him.... He forgot.... The whistle had been blowing, soundingdeparture. He had not heard. There was a lull. From afar, shrill, childish voice brought a drifting, "Bye, bye, daddy, dear!" ... He didnot hear.... Her eyes were on his. His eyes were on hers.... And seemedto be nothing else.... 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 

IN THE NIGHT. 

He had told Parks to come to him as soon as they were under way. Therewere certain letters that he wished to get off in time to send them backon the pilot boat. Parks found him by the rail, gazing at a tall, darkly-beautiful woman reclining in a steamer chair, eyes only visible above agreat cluster of crimson blossoms. Parks had spoken to him three timesbefore there was forthcoming a reply. Then, slowly, as a man awakeningfrom a heavy sleep, Schuyler had gone with him to his room. 

He had tried to dictate his correspondence; had tried, and failed. Therewere many mistakes. His thoughts would not seem to coalesce. His mind wasnot upon what he was doing, nor could he place it there. And Schuyler'swas a brain that had always been to him an admirably trained servant, coming when he willed it, doing what he willed and in the way hewilled.... But today it was a servant sullen, rebellious, recalcitrant.... The letters remained unwritten. Nothing was sent back with thepilot. And Parks, wondering, puzzled--and, perhaps, a bit perturbed--watched the pilot swing down the Jacob's ladder, and make across thewater toward his craft, with wonderment, puzzlement, perturbation no bitabated. 

Schuyler paced the deck all that day. Lunch he did not touch. Dinnerfound him undesirous of food. He was walking--walking--striding up anddown, up and down--deep in thought, it seemed--and yet he had not beenable to dictate his letters. Parks wondered yet more. At length he wentto his employer and asked him if he were not needed. The answer was curt;it was "no. " And never before had Parks been answered without a cordialnod, or, perhaps, the good smile of good-fellowship.... He could notunderstand. 

And Schuyler? His brain was in a tumult. Like us all, there were manythings that he did not know--there were many things that he did not evenknow there were to know.... Some of these he was beginning to learn. Ithad shaken him--it was shaking him--to his soul. 

He did not see The Woman again that day.... Her room was across thecorridor from his. He heard her voice, directing the steward to bring toher her dinner.... 

It was dark that night--dark as night seldom gets in the northernlatitudes, in June. The lights of the deck looked like vigorousglowworms. The stars seemed very far away. Far below, as he paced, hecould see dimly a great blackness that was the sea, and against it thewhite of the waves as they broke sullenly against the huge hull.... Laterit became yet more black. The stars vanished.... The ship seemed a worldof its own, hurling through an eternity of utter, deadly space. A windsprang up, a wind from the East, wet and vicious, a wind that spat uponone, that chilled one, that slapped one with clammy fingers. 

Schuyler paced the deck. Coming out of the dim half light of thepromenade into the corner of the rail, by the bow, he thought he saw her. He was not sure at first.... Then, though his eyes pierced no moreclearly, he was sure.... He went closer. She stood there, white handsclasping the bare rail, lithe, sinewy, lazy body, tilted a bit backwardas though in the grasp of the spitting wind. Her throat was bare to it, and her breast. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were deep lidded. Her headwas poised like a tiger lily upon its stalk.... He stood there, envelopedin the blackness.... For a long time she stood motionless. Then shestretched her white arms above her head, stretched the long muscles ofher body, as a panther stretches. She was very, very beautiful.... Hestood watching.... The ship lurched. It reeled against a huge wave, shivering it into roaring spume. The wet fingers of the wind had wrappedher garments about her, every fold tight against her rounded body. Shestood, arms above her head, lips parted, silhouetted against the foam.... The ship reeled again, and there came darkness utter.... When again therewas light so that one might see, Schuyler stood alone. 

Six bells had struck ere he went to his room. Then, scourged of body, scourged of soul, wracked, harassed, torn, he sought his berth. But hedid not sleep. He thought of Parmalee, the boy who was a man. He thoughtof The Woman. He thought of himself. He thought of the wife that heloved. He thought of the child that he loved--the child that had come tohim through that wife. He thought of all these things, and of many more;and he did not understand; he did not know. For God has shown even thewisest of us but little of this world in which we live. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 

WHITE ROSES. 

It was two months later. In the little garden that lay on the side ofthe big, rambling house at Larchmont where the sun best loved to dwell, roses were in bloom; and roses, even as the sun, seemed to love thatgarden. They clustered, great masses of glowing white, against thelatticed arbor--they caught playfully at one's hat as one would walkthrough the gate that led to the broad green lawn, and to the Soundbeyond--they snatched at one's clothing as one would walk past thelargest bush--the one that stretched its branches across the Frenchwindow. It was a real garden--an out-of-door home--a garden in which onemight live, and in which one might be glad that one was alive. 

At one side of a tiny writing table set upon the thick, carpet-likesward, sat the mother, pen in hand, before her a half-finished letter. Across from her the child pressed strong white teeth into the yieldingwood of her pencil; and before her, too, was a half-written letter--asprawling, uncertain letter of childhood. 

At length the child looked up. She could see that her mother was notwriting; so if she spoke, she would not be interrupting. 

"Mother, dear?"

"Yes, honey?"

"How do you spell love?"

"Don't you know, dearie?"

The child shook her head. 

"L, " prompted the mother. 

Muriel ventured, dubiously:

"L-a-?"

Her mother shook her head. The child ventured again:

"L-i-?"

"No, honey. "

The child kicked her brown little legs. 

"Tell me, mother dear, " she besought. "Please tell me. "

"L-o-v-e, " spelled the mother. 

"Oh, yes! I 'member now.... Mother, dear?"

"Yes, little sweetheart?"

"When is a daddy coming home? It's awfully hard to write letters. He'sbeen gone a long time now, hasn't he, mother dear?"

"Yes, dearie.... A long, long time. " The violet eyes were sad. 

"'Most a year?" persisted the little one. 

Her mother smiled a little, wanly. 

"It seems like it, doesn't it?" she said. "But it's only two months--notonly two months, " she corrected; "but two months. "

Came a little pause. It was broken again by Muriel. 

"Mother, dear. "

"Yes?"

"Can't I make the rest just kisses?"

With a smile--a smile of infinite love and tenderness, the mother leanedacross and kissed the child that was hers. 

"Of course you may, dearie, " she assented, softly. 

"Why don't you write kisses, too, mother, dear?" queried the little one. "It's lots easier.... Oh, mother, dear! I'll tell you what I wrote ifyou'll tell me what you wrote. Will you?"

Violet eyes gave loving assent. 

"Oh, goody! We won't tell anyone else, will we?"

"No, dearie. "

"Then, " declared Muriel, "I'll read mine. "

She picked up the wrinkled little sheet of sadly irregular chirography. 

"Dear father daddy, " she read. "It rained yesterday. Mother and I arewell. We hope you are well and God gave our new cat four kittens. " Shelooked up into the face of her mother. "God is awfully good to cats, isn't He, mother dear?" she asked. She went on, then, with the assuranceof childhood: "Please come home. We miss you. I fell in the lakeyesterday, but didn't take cold. I love you.... And the rest is justkisses. "

She eyed her mother anxiously. 

"Do you think daddy will like that letter?" she asked. 

Her mother's voice was a bit uneven as she answered. 

"I'm sure he will, little sweetheart I'm _sure_ he will. "

"Now, " requested the child, "you read yours. "

Kathryn, drawing the child to her, bent forward. There was much in herheart--much that she might not tell to anyone of all the world save two--and one of these was far away; and, even though the other could notunderstand, still--

She read:

"My John: You know how we love you, but you don't know how we miss you. Please, please come back to us. If it weren't for Muriel I don't knowwhat I'd do, John, dear. I don't want to make you unhappy. I want you tohave all the honors--all the prominence--everything that a man's heartholds dear. But I can't help being jealous a little of the things thatare keeping you from us.... "

She ceased, turning her head away. A robin, in the roses, lifting itshead, broke into song. The child waited, patiently.... At length sheinquired:

"Is that all, mother dear?"

Kathryn nodded. "Yes, honey. "

"Haven't you made any kisses?"

"No, dearie. "

"But, " protested the child, "daddy'll be so disappointed!"

"Will he, honey? That wouldn't do, would it? ... Very well, then, mother'll make some kisses. "

With Muriel looking on, the mother made several large, and heavy crossesat the foot of that which she had written. There were other marks on thatletter--marks that were not kisses--marks that had been made by moisture, and that had smeared the ink as they had been quickly wiped away. 

These the child did not notice; she was looking toward the house. 

"Here comes Aunt Elinor, mother, dear, " she said. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER NINETEEN. 

SHADOWS. 

Mrs. VanVorst had been very ill. A fever, contracted in South Africawhere she had been with her husband--a fever gained in a futile effort tosave the life of that husband, had sadly fagged a naturally vigorousconstitution. There had been a recurrence soon after her return toAmerica. Now she was in that condition of indolent convalescence that isin women so interesting, in men so uninteresting. 

She was an out-of-door woman, tall, lithe, willowy. In the rugged healththat was normally hers, she seemed muscled almost like one of theopposite sex; yet she lost by it none of the charm of frank femininitythat was hers. She was long-limbed, clean-limbed, quick of mind and ofbody.... The forced inaction of illness was irksome to her. It was hardfor her to walk slowly; it was hard for her to sit in silent inaction--to lie in indolent unrest. Too, she felt more than anyone save herselfmight ever know the loss of the man that had been to her not only husbandbut as well friend, companion and comrade. 

She had been of the world, though anything but worldly. She knew perhaps, more than many another of the Hidden Things. 

She strolled forward through the sun-flecked garden. A magazine, itsleaves still uncut, was in her hand. She sank into a chair, in a spotfrom which she might see the Sound and its burden of sails. 

"Tom come yet?" she asked. 

Kathryn shook her head. 

"Not yet. "

"Heard from Jack to-day?"

Again Kathryn made negation. 

"The foreign mail hasn't come yet, " she said. "I told Pierre to stop atthe office for it. "

Elinor, selecting a paper knife, ran it slowly between the pages of hermagazine. 

"That business of his seems to be keeping him a long time, " was hercomment. "What did he say in his last letter?"

"Why, there are several matters of great importance that still remainunsettled. It's not a little thing, his mission, you know. I don't knowmuch about such things; but diplomatic questions, it always seemed to me, take years and years of all manner of serious discussion, and weightyargument. "

Kathryn tried to speak lightly; yet the heaviness of her heart waspitifully apparent. Elinor was scanning a colored frontispiece--a thingof vivid yellows and brilliant blues. 

"You're feeling almost like yourself again, aren't you, Nell?"

Elinor nodded. 

"Yes, " she replied. "Thanks to you. "

"You were very ill. "

"One more doctor would have finished me. "

Of a sudden, there came from the drive the quick honking of an automobilehorn, together with the soft purring of an engine. Muriel leaped to herfeet; brown little legs flashed as she made her way across the garden. 

Kathryn and Elinor watched her going. They heard her cry, "Oh, Mr. Tom!"Another moment and Blake, carrying the child in his arms, thrust asidethe bending heads of the white roses and made his way into the garden. 

"Hello, folks, " was his greeting. "Is God in?"

"Who?" demanded Elinor. 

"God, " he returned. "This is heaven, isn't it? It certainly does seemlike it to anyone who has just come from the fireless cooker thatsometimes rejoices under the name of Manhattan. My old Aunt Maria! But itis hot there, though. "

"We're very glad to see you, Tom, " Kathryn began; "although we do owe youa scolding. "

"What for?" he demanded, setting the child to the sward and taking offhis hat. 

"You haven't been near us for a fortnight. "

He seated himself, mopping his forehead. 

"Business, Kate. Business, " he declared, importantly. 

Elinor laughed in pleasant irony. 

"Business!" she repeated. 

"I said, 'business, '" he retorted. 

"Yes, " she rejoined; "but you can't prove it. "

"Can't eh?" he inquired. "Well, you go back to the wicked metropolis andyou'll find that my rent is paid and that a coupon's been cut from one ofmy bonds. And who did it, I'd like to know?"

"Oh, your secretary, or the janitor, or somebody, " returned Elinor, easily. "Not you. "

Tom laughed. 

"I must have a very negligible reputation for industry in this menage. How do you think I spend all my time?"

Elinor, arms akimbo, half faced him. 

"Well, Mr. Bones, " she asked. "How do you spend all your time?"

He grinned at her, friendlily. 

"Feeling better, aren't you?"

"I feel so well, " she returned, "that if this doctor of mine weren't sucha Simon Legree, I could play you eighteen holes of golf for a box ofgloves against a box of cigars. "

"Gambler!" he scoffed. "And if I should win, I suppose I'd have to smokethe cigars. "

"Certainly, " she countered, easily, "if I should have to wear thegloves. "

He sank back in the big chair. 

"Well, " he asserted, "it were useless to speculate on that which maynever be. I am at present in that interesting state of a man's careerwhere golf doesn't belong. A man who is beyond the first flush ofadolescence and not yet in the last pallor of senility, has no businessdallying with golf. He's liable to get sunstruck. "

Muriel, who had been listening with round, wondering eyes, ran to hermother. 

"What does he mean, mother dear?" she asked. 

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 todaddy. "

Taking her mother's hand, she led her to the little table. Elinor, leftalone 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 stuckto this place in summer like a barnacle. Was crazy about it. "

Blake, sitting with left fist in right palm, eyes upon the velvety greenof 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--asincere welcome. She was glad to see him; how glad, she herself scarcelyknew. She had few friends; for there were but few people for whom shereally cared. She had known Blake for many, many years--known him andliked 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. Theone has power to spoil, you know, even as has the other; and bothtogether--unusual indeed is the man who can resist. 

"It's good to see you again, Tom, " she declared. "It's been lonelyhere.... And I never thought that would happen. "

"It's good to be here, " he returned, looking steadily upon her. "It'sgood to be here, Kate. It's a perfect place, this--perfect. "

Elinor had risen; plucking a bending blossom, inhaling of its delicatefragrance, 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 adeep 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 cantell 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'sloneliness. There are a lot of people who think because I have a motor tosmell, 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 domesticindividual that ever desecrated a dinner coat; and sometimes the naturaltendencies of the gregarious male animal will not down. There's too muchof the concentrated quintessence of unadulterated happiness lying aroundhere. Maybe that's it. "

"We have been happy here, Tom--very, very happy. " Then, quickly: "I'msorry, Tom.... I understand, and I'm sorry. "

He smiled. 

"It's nothing, Kate, " he declared, "nothing at all. You've got to expecta bachelor to kick every once in a while, you know. They're a peevish lotof old guys. "

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWENTY. 

A FAIRY STORY. 

Toward the child of his friend, and of his friend's wife, Blake felt notas men in his place would have felt. The love that he had for the daintylittle 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 hisbone. It was the "almost" that hurt; for she was the child of the womanhe loved, and of another man.... 

To love the wife of another man is a bitter thing--a bitter thing. Tolove 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 thatmust be borne. To stay--to see day by day the happiness that lieth beyondhope, were to stand in hell and gaze at heaven. And this were mostbitter, most hard, of all. Yet this was what Blake had done. This waswhat Blake would do; and it was what he expected to keep on doing untilthere was no such thing as time and the souls of all men were dead. Hedid it because all that lay for him in life lay there, even though notthe tiniest bit of it could he claim for his own. And he was a man ofheart, as well as of head, and honor. 

Perhaps it was because he had loved the woman who was the wife of hisfriend, since the day when she was as her daughter was now; that his lovefor the little one that was of her transcended all else in his being--allelse save the one thing that he never mentioned, not even to himself. SHEhad been like that; a dainty, pretty, loving, simple, naive, sturdy, rugged little thing, with wind-blown hair, and sun-tanned cheeks andlegs--soft, gentle, infinitely appealing, generous, loving. In the littleone that was of her, he saw her again, violet-eyed, glowing with theglorious abundance of vigor, building wondrous castles of blue beachclay, counting the soaring gulls against the soft blue of summer skies, wandering, laughingly, through daisy fields, rolling, a whirling littletumult of lace and ribbons and wildly-waving bare legs down the stacks offragrant hay. She had been like that. Small wonder that on her child helavished all the choked tenderness that cried, sometimes, so, sopiteously for outlet. 

And as for the child--'way, down deep in her little heart, she hadbuilded of the infinity of her love, three sky-reaching heaps, each onebigger, and more wonderful than the other. One of these she gave to hermother; one to her daddy; and one to "Mr. Tom. " And she deemed herselfnot 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 hisneck 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 shesank down contentedly in his lap, and settled her outspreading littleskirt 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 wasa wonderful, wonderful princess. There was a fairy prince, too, " he wenton, "a handsome, dashing--a prince that everyone loved and admired andhonored. "

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, veryeruditely, 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 fatman, 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 thatyou 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 themdon't have whiskers; and some of them wear yachting caps, or panamas, ormost 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, thegnome loved the princess, too. "

"Did she know it?"

He shook his head. "No one knew it but the gnome, " he returned. "And theprince and princess were very happy. Then a little princess came to livewith 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 theground, all alone. "

"Didn't he ever come out?"

"Yes; he used to come out sometimes to tell fairy stories to littlegirls. 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 tellyou 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 hehad never meant to tell. It had come to his lips, as a parable; becauseof the way he felt toward the child that was not his; because to her itwould never have meant anything; and because of the things inside thathad struggled for outlet so long. He wondered if she had heard, andhearing, 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 aletter, and concluded:

"Read that. "

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. 

A LETTER. 

Blake took the letter. With its taking there came to him a premonitionthat the things that he had suspected--the things that he had heard--thethings that to him were as unbelievable, as utterly absurd, andridiculous, and impossible, as might be the vainest imaginings of thevainest, had been proven true. 

Over the first of the letter, he skipped cursorily.... At length he foundJohn Schuyler's name. The passage relative to the name was brief. He readit, slowly, word by word. Then he handed back the letter to Elinor. 

She had seated herself, waiting. One knee was crossed over the other; andover 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 werechildren together.... I think you knew her, too.... She's not the womanto make a charge like that unless it's true. "

Blake shrugged his shoulders. A great pain shot through his heart; agreat numbness clamped his brain. He had heard things himself. He hadseen people who themselves had seen, or thought that they had seen. Oneman he had knocked down. With two more, his good friends, he hadquarreled irrevocably. And in his own soul, something had told him thatit 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 withthis woman. They were at the same hotel where Martha stayed. And themorning 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 andkept 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 mysister--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, " shesaid, bitterly. And then: "He should have thought of these things beforehe did what he did.... There's one thing to be done, and only one. Ishall 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 menhave two codes of ethics--a loose, convenient one for yourselves, atight, uncompromising one for us. There are no two codes of ethics. Rightis right, and wrong is wrong; and there can be no compromise. When a manmarries a woman, he owes to that woman every bit as much as she owes tohim.... Suppose, " she went on, tensely, "that it were Kathryn who haddone this thing--who had lied and deceived where she had promised to loveand 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, "Ishall tell her. "

Then from the house came Kathryn, happily, gaily. In her hand there was aletter, a letter with a foreign post-mark, a letter that, from its jaggedend, had been torn open, with eager hands. 

"A note from Jack!" she cried. 

"What does he say?" demanded Elinor, tensely, her lithe fingersinterwoven. 

"Oh, terribly lonely, " returned her sister--"trying so hard to finish hiswork and get back to us. I'm adding a postscript. " She seated herselfbefore 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 oneknew better than she. She stood, silent, eyes half closed, handsclenched. 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]

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. 

AGAIN THE FAIRY STORY. 

Kathryn, busy at her postscript, did not hear. Blake stepped swiftlyforward. 

"No!" he whispered. "No!"

Elinor put him aside. 

"Kate!" she said again. 

Blake stood for a moment, hesitant. Muriel had come from the house. Toher he called. 

"Come here, little partner. "

Obediently, she came running to him. He seated himself, and took her uponhis 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 notwait for her answer; he spoke swiftly, surely. Elinor, across the table, eyed him curiously. Kathryn, still writing, was oblivious quite to allthat 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 littleprincess; and they cried; but they were brave princesses, so they didn'tcry 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 princesshad a sister. She was a good woman; and, like all good women, she washard-headed. The sister heard about the witch, and she wanted to runright home as fast as she could, and tell all about it. And that wouldhave 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 otherstory!"

"Ah, but, " went on Blake, hurriedly, "the sister didn't tell. She wasn'thard-headed. She listened to the voice of reason, rather than to that ofintuition--"

"What's that word you just said, Mr. Tom?"

"Intuition?"

She nodded. 

"Eh--ah, " he hesitated, then, "why, intuition is a thing that women usefor a brain. And, " he continued, "bye and bye the fairy prince managed toget away from the wicked witch that had charmed him, and he came backagain to the fairy princess, and the little fairy princess; and though ofcourse 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.... Doyou 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 hangingblossom of white, fragrant, spreading. Her eyes were moist; her handtrembled. 

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!" Andthen she added slowly, "If women were only as loyal to women as men areto men!"

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. 

AID. 

Blake had suspected; but he had refused to believe. Now he knew. Andhalf an hour later, "The Vagrant, " under full head of steam, was surgingdown 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 thechain rattled. Blake's big French car was waiting for him at the pier;and, with scant regard for the speed ordinances, it bore him swiftlythrough the traffic-thronged streets to lower Fifth Avenue, and to thehouse of Dr. DeLancey. 

The passing of the years had made but little change in either the gooddoctor or his abode. His office looked the same--dry and musty. He lookedthe same--shrewd and kindly. 

"Come in, " he said, with the testiness that in him was cordialityconcentrated. "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 thematter now. Sick? You don't look it. If all my patients were like you andthe Schuylers, I'd starve to death. " He fumbled with an old-fashionedcedar 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 youhave, 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 eyesshowed 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 olddesk. 

"Will you stop hemming and hawing and shilly-shallying around and come tothe 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'sridiculous--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'veknown him since he was born. And I knew his father, and his mother, andhis grandfather and his grandmother before him! Damme, I don't believeit. 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 itcontained. 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 goto 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 yourdashed 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 thesleeve of his coat. His hat was over his ear. He was vainly trying to puthis left glove on his right hand. 

"Well?" he blurted, "what are you standing there for like a bump on alog? Why don't you get started? What's the matter with you, anyhow? Comeon!" He turned, and shouted up the stairs: "Mary! Mary! Ma-a-a-a-ry, Isay! 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 gethome. 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 outthe door, and down the steps to the waiting car. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR. 

RESCUE. 

Blake waited on the yacht, in the harbor of Liverpool. It was hard forhim to sit idly by at such a time; but he felt that it was best. Therewas 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; forhe loved the daughter of Jimmy Blair, you know; and it was not alone thatJack Schuyler was his friend; it was as well that he was her husband, andthe father of her child. So he did not trust himself to go, then; for heknew that all that he might do, Dr. DeLancey could do, and more. 

Dr. DeLancey went, then, alone. In London he found John Schuyler. He didnot announce himself; he bullied and stormed and finally persuaded thosewho stood between him and his quarry, to let him go unannounced. 

He did not knock. Instead he thrust open the door and entered. Schuylerwas standing before the grate with its burden of glowing coals. He lookedup. He started, rubbing his eyes as one who sees but doesn't believe thatwhich 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'swaiting 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 practiceand let everything go to the devil to come over here, and I don't wantany of your dashed _buts_ thrown at me. You get your hat and coat andyou 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 youcan'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 onthe 'Transitania, ' to-morrow. You're coming now. D'ye hear me? You'recoming now--this dashed instant!"

He advanced upon Schuyler, gripping him by the arm. Schuyler stood for abrief moment, doggedly. Then suddenly his head dropped forward upon hisbreast. 

"Very well, " he acquiesced, slowly. Suddenly his voice broke. He almostwhispered:

"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 differentJohn Schuyler from the one they had known. He had refused to shake handswith either Blake, or the doctor. He did not mention the woman; nor didthey. They tried to be toward him as they had always been--as though allthat had happened alone in imagination.... He did not sleep; he ate butlittle; and he drank, some. 

Blake was heart-sick--soul-sick. To see the man that he had known andloved 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 thathe spoke. 

In crossing, Schuyler spent much time on a long, long letter--a letterthat required much rewriting. On landing, he mailed that letter to thedaughter of Jimmy Blair. 

As, on the pier, he separated from Blake and Dr. DeLancey, in spite ofthe insistent pleas of the one, and the testy commands of the other, thathe come to live with them. He said, only:

"I shall go to a hotel. I shall stay there a fortnight. Don't come to seeme. Don't let anyone come to see me. Don't even try to find out where Iam. There's one thing, and only one, for me to do. I'm going to try to doit.... Sometime, I hope that I may shake hands with you, Tom. Sometime Iwant to shake hands with Dr. DeLancey. I want to tell you both all thereis in my heart to tell you. But that time is not yet. God bless you forall that you've done for me. "

And, white-lipped, moist-eyed, he left them. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. 

THE RETURN. 

The library of John Schuyler's town house was a large room, done in dullbrowns and deep greens. All that good taste and a sufficient purse coulddo to beautify it--to render it alike pleasing and restful to the eye, comforting and satisfying to the soul, had been done. Carpeting was deepand rich. The walls were panelled of mahogany, and the bookshelves sunkinto their dull depths. On either side of the door leading to the hallhung a painting, the one a Turner, the other a Corregio. There was afireplace--a huge fireplace wherein might lie a four-foot log; above it amirrored mantel; before it the skin of a jaguar. Across from this, anarrow 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 hadwithered, and fallen. It had been a dun morning, a morning of dullgray.... Schuyler sat at the big, mahogany desk in the center of hislibrary. Papers lay spread upon the table before him. A decanter of cutglass and silver lay there, also. 

The Schuyler that had come was different, very, from the Schuyler thathad gone. He was still quick, agile, alert; but there was gone from hisclean-cut face the expression of cheerful optimism--of confidenthappiness--of all-spreading good-fellowship. Little wrinkles had gatheredat eye-corners--deeper were the lines that ran from nostrils to the endsof his mouth. But these changes one might not have noticed were it notfor the eyes. For, from these the light had gone. They were as lampsunlit. 

Yet was there one other change apparent; for while before he hadconcentrated easily upon that which he had to do, now it was withdifficulty--almost, even, with impossibility. He paused, often, to pourfrom the decanter a little brandy into a small glass, and to drink thatwhich he had poured. He rose from his chair, to stride nervously, up anddown, up and down. He seated himself only to drink again; he drank againonly 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 ofdocuments 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 youto 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, andpossibly 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 nothere. "

"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 glassesan even inch of the amber liquor. He raised the glass to his lips; butset 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'sfurniture and trunks. "

Schuyler's brows contracted; there was the slightest suggestion of aquiver 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 momentssat silent and motionless before his desk. But nowadays, he could not sitmotionless for long. There was that inside his brain--inside his soul--which would not let him. It kept him moving--moving--moving, withoutrest, without cessation; even as he had paced the deck of the liner, onthat other morning, almost until the day had come to claim again from thenight that which was its own. 

Of a sudden he rose from his chair. Swift strides took him across theroom. Quickly, nervously, he drew back the curtain from the window.... Hecould see, beneath him in the street, the van that had come for thebelongings of his wife--of the woman who had borne him his child--thechild which he had not seen since, upon the dock, she had waved himfarewell. 

John Schuyler had wandered into the Unknown. Unwillingly, knowing fullwell what he was doing, but powerless to help--powerless to prevent--hehad gone.... Sometimes it did not seem real to him. It was a nightmare--a horrid, horrible, awful, grewsome, rotten dream, a dream that broughtto his nostrils a stench--to his soul a coldness unutterable--a coldnessbeside which that of death might seem a grateful warmth.... He would wakesometimes from his dreams, a cold sweat enveloping him like a pall, ascream upon his lips.... And then, again--He did not understand. He couldnot understand. It was hopeless, utterly, utterly hopeless.... Why shouldsuch 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 init.... 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 themselvesinto the traces, as the whip fell across their flanks. He watched the vanslowly gather momentum. He watched it rumble heavily down the soddenasphalt.... At length it turned the corner.... 

John Schuyler swung on his heel. And then he laughed; it was a laughthat, God grant, you may never laugh, nor I!

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. 

THE RED ROSE. 

He did not see her enter. He did not hear her enter. Yet he knew thatshe was there, although he had left her across an ocean.... Anothersense, it seemed, there was within him.... He knew that she had crossedthe room; that she was leaning, rounded arms all bare, across the back ofthe great chair, by the window. He did not know; he had not looked; yethe could see her, beautiful, gloriously beautiful in her strange, weird, dark beauty; head poised like a tiger lily upon its stalk; great massesof dead black hair coiled in the disorder that, of her, was order abovethe low, white forehead; vivid lips parted to reveal the gleam of shiningteeth; 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. TheUnknown had taught him so much that of the things it had not taught, hehad ceased to wonder.... 

He looked; and looked away. She laughed, a little, lightly. She turned alittle, lissomely. He could see the muscles of her straight, slendershape 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 ruin _we_ have wrought, My Fool, " she corrected. 

"Don't call me that, " he muttered. "It hurts. It hurts because it'strue. "

"Most truths hurt, " she remarked, smilingly. 

"Now, " he mumbled, "yes.... " And then: "You're satisfied, I hope. She'sgone. "

"Gone?" It was a pretty inflection--the rising inflection of greatsurprise. Her eyes, glowing of merriment, belied her lips. 

"Gone, " he repeated, doggedly. "Gone, and taken the child--my child--ourchild--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 torespect; one to caress, the other to honor; one to please himself, theother to please his friends. And you're no different from the rest that Ihave known. "

He looked up at her, eye laden of hate, and scorn. 

"The rest that you have known!" he retorted, with bitterness, withmeaning. 

"The rest that I have known, " she returned, evenly, lightly. 

"Young Parmalee, and Rogers, and Seward Van Dam--and God knows how manymore!"

She laughed. 

"Jealous, eh? That is as it should be, My Fool. " She laid her handlightly 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 sometimesto the woman he loves as at other times he is sweet. " She plucked ascarlet rose from the great cluster that she wore at her breast, danglingit 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 himlightly across the face with the scarlet blossom, "and go. " Then, withabrupt transition: "That and because I love you. "

He laughed, mirthlessly. 

"Because you love me!" he cried, his voice all scorn. "Because you loveme! Does love then bring disgrace, and ruin, and dishonor upon the objectof 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 ecstasyand 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 aloneknew how to kindle.... It pleased her.... It pleased her also to blightit at her will. She laughed. She knew as well how to blight as how tokindle. She knew also how to twist a soul in torment; and how to swirl itto 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 whiteblossom. 

"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 thered rose--rich, rare, glowing, glorious--that thrills the heart with thejoy of living and quickens the blood in the veins until the very soulcries out in the frenzy of its fragrance--a pulsing, throbbing love ofbody and soul and heart and head, that rushes upon one like a storm atsea, dashing one hither and thither, impotent in its tearing, tossinggrip.... That is our love--the Red Love--and it is sweet, is it not, MyFool?"

She bent over him, watching the light again leap to the heavy eyes as heanswered:

"Sweet? Sweet as Paradise--a false Paradise, perhaps; but still Paradise!Those days on the Mediterranean, the sea no bluer than the sky that heldit in its sunlit hand--and Venice--Venice, with the great, round moonoverhead, and the mysterious semi-darkness all about--the splashing ofsoft waters there beside us and the silent whisper of the lazy oar--andjust 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. Theone is a rough road and weary, and on it happiness seldom treads. It is aplodding road, flat and long; and there you walk with stale and barrenpeople, through a stale and barren land, until you come to an ending yetmore stale and more barren than are road or people. That is the road ofthe White Rose. But the Road of the Red Rose! That's different! On theRoad 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--thesilent whisper of the breeze--the call of Love!"

She rose lithely to her feet. In one hand she held the bending whiteblossom; 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 redwas crushed between them as he seized her in his arms and drew her tohim. 

"The red rose!" he cried. "And the Red Road! And we'll travel to the end, and beyond!"

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. 

THE RED ROAD. 

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. Heturned to her, almost savagely. 

"You do love me, Lady Fair, don't you?" he almost pleaded. "You must loveme, knowing as you do all that I have given up for you. " He pointed to aheap of carelessly-tossed letters upon desk-top. "Do you see those?" hedemanded. "The first from Washington--the President--demanding myresignation. Following that, curt requests that I withdraw from positionsof trust that I held. My wife crushed--my child disgraced--my friendsgone--! God in heaven! What haven't I given you, Lady Fair!"

"I thank you, " she responded, most graciously, bending low, "And I havegiven 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, andunreasonable. "

"And in the end, perhaps, " he said slowly, very slowly, "I shall be likehim. " He sat for a moment, silent. At length he continued: "But if itwere to be I, I alone, for all time, could it last--this Red Love ofours? 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 bodywithers. The brain grows dull. The blood becomes thin. The soul getsweary. And the power to live as once we lived is taken from us. We sitwhite-haired, blue-veined, drinking in the sun through shrivelled poresto 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 whoknew 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 uglyweb of a sullen spider.... Again she was the woman who did not know theKnown, 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 thetelling. 

"Then keep a-dreaming, My Fool, " she purred, softly. It was almost awhisper. "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? Whatis this love? A golden leaf of happiness floating on the summer seas oflife. A silver star of utter joy set in the soft heavens of eternity. Adream that is a reality; a reality that is a dream.... But the stormcomes upon the sea. Black clouds blot out the stars. And there can be nodream from which there is no awakening. "

"Yet, " she cajoled, "while the sea smiles--while the star shines--whilewe dream--there is happiness to pay for all. "

"To pay for all, and more!" Again he turned upon her, swiftly. "Yet inthe golden aura of that happiness, there always stand three sodden soulspointing stark fingers at me in ghoulish glee.... Parmalee--Rogers--VanDam.... If I thought--if I for one moment thought--that I should be asthey, 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 ahandful of scarlet petals, casting them above her head. They fell aboutthem both, a glowing shower. She went on: "How for a moment you couldhave 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 wasleft 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 saywhat 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 momentaryflash 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 hasscorned, 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 lifemore sweet. " She went to him, leaning toward him, beautiful armsextended, 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; thestraight 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 bitterthan the sodden shame of a secret sin!"

She replied, lightly, arranging the masses of her hair with deft, slenderfingers:

"All of which is quite as it should be, My Fool; for the hate makes thelove but the more poignant; the ugliness is but a fair setting for thebeauty; and sweetness in bitterness is far more sweet than sweetnessalone. "

Her mood was different now. He had sunk into the great chair. She seatedherself upon its arm; her head sunk to his; her cheek against his.... Andagain he kissed her, on the lips. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. 

THE BATTLE. 

The car stopped before the porte-cochere. Blake alighted. He knew wellthe 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 onehas been the friend of such a man as John Schuyler was--when one has felttoward a man as such a man as John Schuyler must be felt toward--when onehas known that man to do the things that he has done--when one has seenthe misery--the suffering unutterable that he has caused--the shamebeyond depth, the grief beyond measurement--and when she upon whom hasbeen heaped this shame and grief and misery and suffering unutterable isthe woman one loves--then it becomes not a little thing to go to that manwithout 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 hisfriend. There he went, thrusting open the broad door. He paused upon thethreshold.... 

The woman, lifted her head.... She moved away from Schuyler, arrangingthe 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 myfriend. "

"Is the stench then so great that it precludes the common courtesy ofannouncing 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--ifyou, 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 theman 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 tellyou that it is useless. Nothing that you can say will change me in theslightest. 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 toyou--to the world--sometimes even to myself--and I'll confess to you thatit doesn't--But, right, or wrong, it's the only one for me, and I musttake it--must, whether I will or not. So, if you've come for a cigar anda chat, well and good. But if for anything else, go and avoid trouble. "

"I'm looking for trouble, " returned Blake, quietly. He advanced to thetable 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 oldfool--Van Dam--well, absinthe and asininity account for him. And theyfell to their fooldom without warning to guard them or precedent toshield them. But you--open-eyed, knowing everything--forewarned andforearmed, --walk fatuously to your doom as one sheep follows another overa 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 wakeup 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. " Heturned to the other; Schuyler was striding up and down the room. "Oldman, " 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 metired! What do you mean by debauching and degrading a good, pure wordlike 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 yourslove! Love lives only where there is sympathy, and respect, and mutualunderstanding. Do you mean to tell me that you have any respect for thiswoman? You know well you haven't a bit more respect for her than she hasfor you, and that's none. Do you mean to tell me there's any sympathybetween you? No more than there is between a snake and a bird. And youaren't capable of understanding her any more than she is of understandingyou. 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 cantell me anything that I haven't told myself, I'd like to hear it. Tell mewhat you think. Tell me what everyone thinks. Put into words the scornand contempt that I see in every eye that looks into mine--in everymirror that I look into. Go on! Tell me something else! But let me tellyou one thing! When Destiny can't get a man any other way, she sends awoman 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 itmeans--all that it means--better than you can ever know?" He struck hisforehead with clenched fist. "Tell me the things that lie here!" hisvoice 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 foreheadagain. 

"I'll tell you this, " said Blake, voice cold, and ringing. "It waswritten 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, acharacter. 'Stripped to his foolish hide, ' the poem reads. But you'restripped to your naked, sodden skeleton. If I weren't so sorry for you, Icould cut your throat. When I think of the little girl--calling youdaddy--honoring you--loving you--and of what you've done for her! When Ithink of your wife--of the woman who went through the pains of childbirthfor you--who held you sacred in that great, loving, glorious heart ofhers--who gave, and gave, and gave asking only that there might be themore to give--You say that maybe I don't know what love is. Well, maybe Idon't--and maybe I do. There are some things that a man may not tell hisbest 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 anew 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 toeye. 

"Now, " cried Blake, hope in his heart--hope ringing in his voice, "willyou be a man, or a thing that earth, nor heaven, nor even hell has roomfor?"

[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 restingon 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 becamea mere broker!" And to Blake: "Why once or twice I myself became almostenthusiastic. Really, sir, you are a most convincing speaker--though ifyou 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 tosee the man that had been his friend, there had been in his breast butlittle hope. Later, however, he had understood better; and there hadawakened 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 hadfought. He had almost won. But now, he knew that he had lost; for inSchuyler'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 noneamong libertines. "

He took his hat from where it lay amid the confusion of the table. Hebowed, first to the woman, then to Schuyler. He was a proud man--a strongman. It hurt him to lose--and the more because the stake had been sogreat.... He passed across the room, and through the door, closing itbehind him. 

Upon the woman, still laughing in the delight of her success, Schuylerrounded. There was in his heart, too, a great bitterness--a great hurt. For he, too, realized how near he had been to salvation--and thatrealization 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 againstthe back of the great chair.... His head sunk slowly upon his arms.... 

There came suddenly from the stairway a little, delighted, cry inchildish treble. 

"Daddy! Daddy, dear!"

Schuyler, head buried, thought at first that it was but within himselfthat he heard--that it was that other sense--that unknown sense--that hadcalled him.... The cry came again.... Slowly he raised his head, andlooked.... 

A great, cold clutch tore his heart. His veins stiffened. His headreeled. He staggered, back, clutching for support, at the chair. Eventhis had come to him!

It was she--his daughter--the child of his wife, and of himself--thechild that had been his to love when still he had been man. 

The little one was scampering down the stairs, tiny feet pattering uponthick carpet. Her eyes were dancing; her lips smiling; there was in herthe 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 notsee--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 lefther while she was talking to a p'liceman.... Oh, daddy, dear! When are wecoming home? I miss you so much!"

The woman moved forward, eyes upon the kneeling, soul-torn man; and uponthe 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.... Againshe smiled, a little.... There were some things that she understood, thatwere of the Known. 

The child was speaking:

"And, daddy, " she said, "mother dear isn't a bit well. Mawkins and I aredreadfully 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 thematter is, she just shakes her head and says, 'Nothing, dearie. Mother'stired. ' 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--theawful, ghastly, horror of the things that he had done--was obsessing himbody and soul and brain and heart. The fires of the uttermost hell wereflaring through his very being. 

Then it was that the woman beckoned to the child of the man that belongedto 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. Sheseized the child, clasping her to her. And once, twice, thrice, shekissed her, on the lips.... The man awoke. He staggered to his feet.... Through the door came Blake. He, too, saw; and while he did notunderstand all, he understood enough. 

Across the room he sprang. He tore the child from the now yielding armsof the woman! Holding tight against him the little one that he loved ashis 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 playeven farther, when one really knows one's strength.... The woman hadpossibly overestimated her prowess--and yet possibly she had not--it werehard to tell of one who knows the things that we do not--who does notknow the things that we do. There was manhood, and honor, and decency inSchuyler yet--a little, of a sort. He struck her in the face--full uponthe vivid, crimson lips--and a little of their crimson seemed to leaveits lair. It trickled down upon the dead whiteness of her skin.... Butshe still smiled. Her white arms went forth languorously. Her lithe, slender, beautiful body undulated. Her eyes were on his.... She stillsmiled.... 

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 eyeswere on his; and she still smiled.... She gauged her power well. Perhaps, at times, she flattered it, a little--but never much.... She stillsmiled.... Perhaps, it was that which she desired. It were hard to tell. For, after all.... 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THIRTY. 

AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 

Blake, leaving the house, lifted Muriel into the big, French car and gotin beside her. Her little mind was in great puzzlement; and of Blake shebegan to ask the countless questions that flew to her lips. "Why wasdaddy living there, when mother dear and she were with Aunt Elinor?" "Whowas the lady that she had seen, and did he know her?" "Was daddy livingthere all alone, and when was he coming to live with them, as he used?"and many, many more. 

Some of them Blake answered as best he could; others he evaded. His heartached within him sorely.... Almost he wished that he were a woman; therelief of tears would have meant much. 

With childish, wondering question stinging deeper and yet more deep, hewatched the stream of traffic swirl past--car and cab, brougham and 'bus. They were on the Avenue--Fifth Avenue, like which there is no otherstreet in our land. 

On they went, past great club, past rows of magnificent residences, pasttowering church and staid old dwelling. They came at length to the Plaza, with its hotels, and glistening statue. The Park lay to the left, a thingof green, with its arching trees. Uniformed nurses were wheeling littleperambulators; others were watching active, tousled-headed littlecharges. Anon there flashed past a group of galloping riders. 

At length they turned into a side street. The car stopped before a houseof brick and stone, with wrought-iron lattices. Blake got out, liftingthe child. 

The butler admitted them. Mrs. VanVorst was in, he said, in response toBlake's query; Mrs. Schuyler was out.... 

It had been some time since Blake had seen Kathryn. She had been veryill, very ill--ill almost unto death. This had followed the receipt of aletter from John Schuyler--a letter which made futile all their effortsto spare her suffering--a letter in which he had been condemned of hisown hand. Dr. DeLancey had labored hard, and well. In the end she wassaved. But Dr. DeLancey was an old man--a very old man; and, when he hadseen that she was saved, he himself had passed away. Possibly it was aswell; for he was a lonely old man, you know; and those few whom he lovedhad brought him much suffering. It was a strange letter, that letter thathad wrought so much--a letter utterly unlike the man who wrote it. Itwas, in part:

"... God himself only knows how I feel. I can scarce believe that it isI who write. And yet it must be I. There is no such thing as redemption--no such thing as hope--no such thing as palliation, or excuse. It issimply an end of me that is not death. Would to God it were. Death wouldbe welcome--even a death of torture refined. There is nothing that Icould say that you would understand for nothing that I could say would Imyself understand. It is simply the end.... I hope I am insane. Yet Ifear that I am not.... I am a ship without a rudder. My will is gone fromme; I have no volition of my own--no soul--nothing. All that is left ofme is a body, and the power still to suffer, and for the rest, only agreat emptiness, and a greater pain. "

Kathryn had fainted, when she received that letter. Then fever had come, and with it, delirium. Which was merciful. For weeks she lay closer todeath than to life.... Now she was better; and yet far from well. Violeteyes were sad--dull. Brown-gold flesh was pallid. She moved with languor. 

For weeks no word of all that meant so much was spoken; it was a topiccarefully avoided. 

One day Kathryn had said that she must go to see Schuyler. They had triedto dissuade her; without success. This was to have been the day. So Blakehimself had gone, eager to bear for her the shock, should there be ashock to be borne; and if not, to render easy her going. 

Elinor met him as he entered the drawing room. He set the child down, bidding her go find her nurse; then he turned to Mrs. VanVorst. 

"I have seen him, " he said, simply. 

She looked the query that there was no need for lips to speak. 

He shook his head. 

"It is impossible, " he declared. "Quite impossible. She was there. "

"We must dissuade Kathryn from going, then, " said Elinor. 

He smiled, grimly, sadly. 

"It will not be hard, I fear. Muriel was there, too. "

And that was why Kathryn Schuyler did not go, then, to John Schuyler. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE. 

THAT WHICH MEN SAID. 

A winter had come, and gone. It had been a bitter winter, and a cold. For Kathryn Schuyler had it been a bitter winter, indeed. Sick of heart, sick of body, she had stayed in the city, going out not at all, seeing ofall her friends only Blake, trying with all her pride, with all herstrength, to adjust herself to the new order of things. It had been aweary winter--a winter that dragged along on laggard feet, loitering, waiting. 

The love of Muriel, the sympathy of Elinor, the devotion of Blake were init the only bits of brightness. She felt strange--lost--astray. By day, she was dull, listless. At night sometimes, she slept a little; at othersshe would bury her face in her tumbled pillow, and her lithe body wouldheave with the wracking of her sobs; for the entire structure of her lifehad been ruthlessly torn down by the hand of one man. It seemed to herthat from its ruin nothing might ever be erected. 

She told this to Blake, one day. Side by side, they had been sitting bythe window, gazing out into a sleet-swept street where horses slipped andslid, and hurrying foot-passengers passed with heads buried in collars, or furs. 

He had said but little in reply--merely that there are things in thisworld that we do not know, and that happiness sometimes come whence weleast expect it. He did not say these things with any great degree ofconfidence. In his own life, there had been but little save longingunsatisfied, prayers ungranted. But she took from it comfort--even thoughthere seemed in it so pitifully little from which comfort might bederived. Perhaps it was the way in which he said it; or perhaps it wasbecause it was he who said it. 

However, winter at length dragged out its weary life to its weary end. Spring came, and with it the soft green of the new born grass, and thelighter shoots of crocus, and lily, and the buds of the trees. Springgrew; and the stolid phalanx of city homes began to don their summerarmor of boards, and blinds and shaded windows. 

And then the Larchmont place was opened. John Schuyler had sent toKathryn the deed of it; the one request that he had made was that shecontinue to live there--that she take Muriel there. 

During all this time no word of him had come to her. Blake had heard. Butno word had he said to Kathryn, because of the things that he had heard. A man of the breadth of acquaintance, of the breadth of interests, thatwas John Schuyler's may not fall to desuetude unwatchful. And Blakeheard, at clubs, at theatres, wherever men congregate, of Schuyler, andof the life that was his. And he, as little as they, could explain. 

Schuyler was drinking, they told him--drinking hard. The woman? Was shestill in New York? Yes; she had been seen at the opera; she had been seendriving in the Mall. A damnable strange case, the whole thing. Grewsome!And, save Blake, they would wash the taste of it all from their mouthswith liquor. Devilishly good fellow, Schuyler. Brainy, too. He would havebeen one of the big men of the country, if it hadn't been for this. 

A chance to save him? They shook their heads, and smiled, grimly. Youknow how it is, yourself. When a man gets into the hands of a woman likethat, what can you do? Say anything against her, and you have to fighthim. Tell him he's a fool and he tells you to mind your own business. Tryto reason with him, then? If the man had any reason left in him, therewould be no occasion to reason. It's hard, true. But your hands are tied. It's just, "Good-bye, " and a prayer for the next man.... So theyreasoned. And could Blake say that they were wrong? ... Could you?

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. 

IN THE GARDEN. 

Kathryn stood beside the blossom-laden arbor, culling fragrant tenderblossoms from the wealth before her. Beside her, Muriel, little skirtupheld, received them. 

"Mother, dear, " said the child, at length. 

"Yes, honey?"

"Does God make roses?"

"Yes, dearie. "

"Who made God?"

Her mother smiled. "He made Himself. God makes everything, dearie. "

With troubled brows the little one asked:

"Did God sit down when He made His feet?"

Came from the house Elinor. She moved lithely, swiftly, now. The old tanhad come back to her cheek; she was no longer an invalid. 

"More roses, Kate?" she asked, brightly. 

Kathryn nodded. 

"Yes, " she said. "It seems almost brutal to cut them, doesn't it? But Ilove them in my room; and they won't grow there. "

"Then sleep out here. It's quite the thing, nowadays. "

Kathryn smiled a little. 

"You're so frightfully lacking in sensibilities, Nell. "

"And, " returned her practical sister, "a lot more comfortable because Iam. " She seated herself. "Tom's back, " she announced. 

A quick little gleam of gladness sprang to the violet eyes. 

"Is he?"

Elinor nodded, nonchalantly. 

"Yes, that floating palace of his dropped anchor about ten minutes ago. They were lowering a launch as I came downstairs. "

"Oh!" cried Muriel, excitedly dropping the roses to the lawn. "There heis now! I can hear him winding up his boat!"

She rang at headlong speed through that arbor way. Another moment andBlake had entered, carrying her in his arms. Kathryn extended her hand tohim; he took it in warm, firm, friendly clasp. Elinor nodded. 

"'Lo, Tom, " was her salutation. 

"'Lo, Nell, " he returned. "You're getting fat. "

"The same to you, and many of 'em, " she replied. "Have a good time?"

"Oh, the same old sea-saw. " He shrugged broad shoulders. "This running asailors' boarding house isn't what it's cracked up to be. We hit a three-day executive session of a northeast storm off the Banks that kept usexceedingly busy. Everyone on board was seasick--except the cook. "

"Tom, " interrupted Kathryn, "I wish you'd come into the library a moment. My lawyers have sent me some papers to sign and return, and I can't makehead nor tail of them. "

"Of course you can't, " he said, assuringly. "I never know what my lawyersare doing. If I did, I'd fire them and do it myself. And they realize it. A lawyer can order a fried egg, cooked on one side only, and make itsound like a royal proclamation announcing a total change of the currencysystem. They're like doctors and clairvoyants. Their graft lies in beingmysterious. Why does a doctor call pink eye _muco puerpuralconjunctivitis_? Because pink eye is not worth more than a dollar atthe outside; but when he hands you _muco puerpural conjunctivitis_, he can get twenty-five at least before you wake up and say, 'Where amI?'"

His humor, perhaps, was forced; possibly there was nothing funny in whathe said; but they laughed. There was always a tension at "Grey Rocks, "now--always a strain. It needed little to relieve it; it needed thatlittle badly. Blake gave to that little all that he could. 

Even the child felt the tension, and the strain of it. She could not havetold what it was; but she missed something beside her daddy, infinite washer longing for him, and her loneliness without him. 

At times she used to beg the dignified Roberts to play buck-jump, andtag, with her, as "daddy used to do. " And this she did while Blake andher mother and her Aunt Elinor were in the library, going over thetroublesome papers with their imposing seals and undecipherable writing. 

"I've been looking for you everyw'ere, Miss Muriel, " the butlerannounced, impressively. Everything that Roberts did was impressive. 

"Were you, Woberts?" she queried. "You didn't want to play hide-and-goseek, did you, Woberts? Because if you did, I'd like to heaps and heaps. "

He opened his lips in protest; but she interrupted:

"I'll be it, Woberts, and you can run and hide. Oh! Will you?"

What could he say? It hurt his dignity--it was a distinct prostitution ofpride--and yet, what could he say? What could he do? For he, too, loved, pitied, and was sorry. 

Thus it was that, returning from the library, Kathryn, Elinor and Blakecame upon a red-faced and puffing butler engaged in giving a mostrealistic imitation of a bear, while a delighted little girl, clappingtiny hands in glee, adjured him to growl as bears growl, not as cowsgrowl. 

It was another welcome little break in the tension. And for that it waswelcome; welcome, that is, to all but him of the outraged dignity. Andeven he, though he puffed and huffed below stairs, deep down in his heartwas glad that he had sacrificed his most precious possession in such acause. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE. 

TEMPTATION. 

Elinor VanVorst swung around in her chair, and eyed her sister. 

"Well, Kate?" she asked. 

Kate raised violet eyes in protest. 

"Please, Nell, don't insist, " she begged. "I don't want to talk aboutit. "

Her sister continued, firmly:

"It must be talked of.... You must divorce him, Kate. "

"No!"

"But I say, 'Yes!' You should hear what people are saying about you. "

"What do I care what people are saying about me? It's what I think ofmyself that counts. "

"That may be true, " her sister retorted; "but it's too idealistic forthis world.... Moreover, you're not consistent. "

Kathryn looked up, quickly. 

"What do you mean?" she demanded. 

Elinor shrugged her shoulders, a little and answered:

"You're compromising. You're hedging. If he isn't good enough to livewith, he isn't good to be married to. "

"But, " Kathryn protested. "I can't live with him, Nell! You know as wellas I how impossible that is. "

"Then, " returned Elinor, rising, "divorce him. "

Kathryn shook her head, wearily. 

"I can't do that, either. "

The other turned. 

"Then what are you going to do?" she demanded. "Are you going on foreverbeing honest neither with him nor with yourself--compromising on the onehand with your womanhood, on the other with your selfishness? How longhas it been since you made the slightest effort to see him, or to sendanyone to him?"

Kathryn answered, slowly:

"Not since the time I tried to go, and Tom went before me. I--I havethought, often, of going.... But, somehow, I've been--afraid. " In almosta whisper, she repeated, "Yes.... Afraid!"

Elinor VanVorst raised her shoulders in an expressive gesture. Itconveyed more plainly than could words that her end of the argument wasdone--her case was rested. 

Kathryn considered long, earnestly, in silence. Divorce him! Divorce JohnSchuyler! It had occurred to her--it had occurred to her in the longsilences of the night--in the thousands of aeons that had lain, ofttimes, between the setting of the sun and the rising thereof.... Divorce him! ... It was a thought that stung. He had been to her all that any man couldhave been. He had been a man of whom her head was proud and her heartfond with the great love that lies in the heart of a good woman. He itwas, and God, who had given her the little child that she could see fromwhere she sat, rolling, a tumbled little heap of white lace and whirlingbrown legs on the broad expanse of the green lawn. He it was who hadtaken the first of her life--who had shown her what it was to live.... 

And then this thing had come--this awful, hideous thing that hadstretched even her very life to the breaking point, and drained from itthe wealth of sweetness to the uttermost drop.... She felt resentment, yes, and horror, and disgust. Yet there were other things, she knew, though she could not have told how she knew. There was something that washidden--something unknown and unknowable.... 

Long, she thought, and earnestly--as she had thought so many, many timesbefore--times without end.... At length she rose. Firm little chin wasset; violet eyes were firm. 

She said, slowly:

"I think I see your point, Nell. You're right. '

"And you'll divorce him?"

Kathryn shook her head. 

"No, " she replied softly, "I'll go to him. "

Elinor started. 

"What!" she cried, untrustful of her own ears. 

"I have failed in my duty; you have shown me wherein I have failed. I'llgo to him. "

Elinor caught her hand. 

"Kate!" she pleaded. "Kate, dear, listen to me! I haven't shown you yourduty if that's what you consider your duty.... I'll tell you somethingthat you haven't thought of.... Muriel. "

In almost a gasp, her sister cried:

"Muriel! ... Muriel!"

"Can you take her with you?" demanded Elinor. 

Kathryn shook her head. 

"No, " she replied. "Of course not. I shall leave her here, with you. "

Her sister shook her head. 

"Do you see?" she queried. "Can you go to him, and live with him, aswife?" Kathryn made no answer. Again Elinor shook her head, gently. "Don't you understand, " she asked. "It's compromise on compromise--hedging on hedging. Can't you see how impossible it all is? ... Howutterly impossible?"

Torn of anguish, of inability to solve the problems that God had laidbefore her, Kathryn turned beseeching eyes to her sister. 

"But what shall I do, Nell?" she asked, beseechingly. "What can I do.... Wasn't it hard enough, even that way?"

Elinor replied, gently:

"Too hard. I want to make it easier. I want you to leave him irrevocably. Then you can forget him; but not until then. "

Kathryn was silent. 

"What does Tom say?" she asked, at length. She had learned to depend muchupon the big-bodied, big-hearted, big-minded friend of late. 

"I haven't asked him, " returned her sister. "But I will, now. "

She rose, quickly, and went to the rose-strewn arbor-way. She could seeBlake, out upon the broad lawn, playing with the child that he loved, boyish, natural, whole-souled, with all the enthusiasm unspoiled that Godgives not to many who are grown. 

"Tom!" she called. 

"Yes?" he answered. 

"Will you come here, to us, for a moment? Let Muriel stay with Mawkins. "

"Right, oh!" he called, cheerily. In another moment he stood in theopening of the arbor, hair rumpled, clothing awry. 

"Well?" he asked, inquiringly. 

Elinor began, slowly:

"Tom, Kate and I have been talking, seriously. I want her to leave JohnSchuyler--legally leave him--leave him for all time. It's the only fair--the only right--thing to do. I'm not going to argue. It is allsufficiently plain. She can't live with him; and yet, as long as she ishis wife, she has no right to be away from him. And she can never go tohim. "

"She wants your opinion, Tom, " she went on. "She's always respected yourjudgment more than mine--more than that of anyone save the man upon whomshe may never depend again. "

Kathryn had wandered to where the white blooms clustered thickest. Shewas thinking--thinking deeply, bitterly. Elinor drew closer to Blake. 

"I like you, Tom, " she said, softly. "You're a good man--a decent man--aclean man--and they're mighty scarce these days.... All that Kate mayhave owed to John Schuyler, she long since paid to the last sad penny.... All your life you have been paying the things that you did not owe.... There is happiness, somewhere; a happiness that can be found. " She thrustout her hand. "Tell her what to do, " she said. "Tell her the right thingto do--the thing that should be done. " And she turned on her heel, andwent away. 

For a long, long time Blake stood motionless. Of that which was going onwithin his soul, no one might know. The expression of his face remainedthe same, and of his body. Only his hands clenched, and unclenched, andclenched again. It was a difficult position in which he found himself--how difficult only he might know. There lay before him a vast, spreadingvista of golden possibility--a possibility of which he had never dared tothink--even to dream. Possibly it were but a possibility--and yet surelyit was that. A word from him would so make it. That he knew. On the otherhand--

For yet a longer time, he stood, hands clenching, unclenching, clenching.... Slowly he went to where the woman he loved stood, slenderwhite fingers plucking nervously at bending blossoms of fragrantwhiteness. 

She turned, a little. Violet eyes slowly lifted.... He looked into theirdepths.... His hands clenched, and unclenched more swiftly. 

"Kate, " he said, at length, slowly, very slowly, "do you want me to tellyou what to do?"

She answered, with infinite weariness:

"I--I don't know, Tom.... I'm tired--so, so tired.... " And then, abruptly: "Tell me.... Yes, tell me. What shall I do?"

She waited, deep eyes lifted, little head poised wearily upon white, rounded throat. 

He answered, very slowly--with effort that even he could not conceal:

"Kate, do you remember that day in June, eight years ago, when you walkeddown the aisle of Old Trinity. Do you remember how the sun shone in atthe windows, flecking the darkness of the old pews with golden motes?John Schuyler met you at the altar; and to him you said, 'For better orfor worse, in sickness and in health, till death us do part. '"

Gently he laid his hand upon her shoulder, with great tenderness. 

"Stick, Kate, " he advised, softly. "Stick. "

And that was all. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR. 

THE SHROUD OF A SOUL. 

It had been arranged that Blake, again, was to go to him first. Littlehad been heard of John Schuyler, of late. A drop to desuetude may of itslast half be far more silent than of its first. One gathers momentum, asone descends, whether the descent be physical, or moral. At the inceptioncomes the gradual slipping--the vast, frantic effort to stay thatslipping--the exertion, the hysteria, the fright, the remorse, thestretching out of hands to aid and of souls to help.... Then, thingsbecome different. There comes a vast silence. The hands draw back; thesouls 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 thelife that he had loved, found it to be so; and, finding, tried to thinkno more.... If only the Great God would take from him his brain! ... ButHe did not.... 

All were gone from him now save She--The Woman. The doctor cameoccasionally when summoned by Parks--Parks who had known and loved inother days. And the coming of the doctor, and of Her, were the onlythings that marked the beginning of the days, and the ending thereof. Helived 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 inits warrenated streets of the city, but seldom. And from the study, atleast, 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 inthe hall had been out of order; and he had taken upon himself the libertyof entering the forbidden demesne; for the doctor must be called. 

The door of the library-study creaked as he opened it.... He stopped uponthe 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 thevery essence of dirt and disorder. Furniture was broken, overturned. Rugswere askew, wrinkled. The desk, upbearing broken bottles and a clutteredmess of paper, letter and debris of all description, was scratched anddented. Pictures sagged drunkenly upon the walls; hangings were torn, anddraggled, and over all lay a pall of dust, dank, choking. 

Slowly, dreadingly, horror gripping his heart, Parks crossed the room tothe desk. He picked up the telephone from where it rested amid the litterand placed the receiver to his ear. The voice of the operator came to himacross 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 isParks--Mr. Schuyler's secretary.... He is worse--much worse.... You hadbetter send someone to take care of him. I am going away.... Yes, that'sall. Goodbye. "

Hanging up the receiver, Parks sought amid the confusion of the desk fora sheet of paper, and envelope. At length he found them; but the pens onthe 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 shouldleave this house. Long, and faithfully, and well had he served JohnSchuyler. He had served him gladly, and given of his best. And, until Ithad come, had he received besides generous pecuniary rewards, the moregrateful compensation of pleasant treatment, consideration, good-fellowship, friendliness. He could not have cared more for John Schuylerhad he been of kin to him.... But the disintegration of a man's soul, andbrain, and body, is not a pleasant thing to watch. It had come to a placewhere 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 alibertine, awaiting but the right one to strike the hidden flint and setthe 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 theirlives until there crossed it another who tore them from it; and that onethey followed, leaving soul and morals and decency and cleanlinessforever behind them. This, at first, he had thought to be John Schuyler. For the woman was beautiful--beautiful as an animal is beautiful.... Butthen he had not been so sure. His confidence had been shaken; for she hadlooked into his eyes, too, playfully; and he had felt his very being rockupon its foundation, and he had slunk away, chilled, helpless, horror-ridden.... After that he had avoided her. She had paid no attention tohim.... 

So the anger--the disgust--the resentment that at first he had felt hadat length been altered to sorrow, and grief, and pity beyond utterance.... Yet there had been nothing that he could do--nothing.... He couldnot sleep, of nights.... It was killing him, too.... 

Upon the soiled, rumpled sheet he wrote.... Came a noise behind him. Helooked up, quickly, frightenedly.... It was Blake; and quick reliefsprang to the clean-cut face. 

But the horror of it was in Blake's. Even as had Parks', his eyeswandered 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 thecurtains 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. Theservants are all gone. "

"Servants gone?"

"Yes; there's been no one below stairs for a fortnight. They irritatedhim, and he discharged them, one and all. "

"His valet?"

"Went last night. I go to-morrow.... To have known him as he was--andthen 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--frightfullylonely. "

"And he?"

"Drink, if you will pardon me--and remorse. He seems bent only uponforgetting 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 numbhis senses. I hear him all through the night muttering--muttering. I hearhim cursing himself--cursing everything, everybody--cursing her--thatwoman--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.... Itis too late, then, you think--too late to do anything? I had thought thatif we should wait--until she was tired--as such as she must tire sooneror later--"

"Too late?" repeated Park. "It has always been too late. It was too latefrom 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 quicktransition: "I beg your pardon. But I was very fond of him. " He placedthe resignation that he had written fair in the center of the desk. Heturned 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 brokenbalustrade. He laughed a little, wildly, with the mirthless chill that isof a maniac. His knees bent; he staggered.... And he laughed again.... 

At first Blake did not know him.... Then, knowing, he could not believethat his eyes brought to his brain the truth.... This was not JohnSchuyler. It could not be John Schuyler. It was not possible. JohnSchuyler was at least a man--not a palsied, pallid, shrunken, shriveledcaricature of something that had once been human.... John Schuyler hadhands--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 wasmore bitter to hear than the sobs of a soul condemned. 

Blake's soul was curdled; his senses were numbed; but still his eyescould look. 

The ghastly figure stopped in the moonlight, at the landing of thestairs. White, claw-like hand clutched at the drunken curtain and rippedit 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 cadaveroushand drew forth a bottle.... And the thing that had been John Schuylerguzzled. 

It laughed again, then, in hollow, mad glee. It staggered forward. Itshollow eyes fell upon the letter that Parks had left. Clutching fingersunsteadily 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. " Dulleyes read. "Your employment has become impossible. " The letter fell tothe floor; the voice cried: "The rats desert the sinking ship!" Itchuckled: "Wise rats. Sensible rats!" And then dead eyes saw the man whostood 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 lonelyhell, this--lonely. "

Blake answered, bitterness in his soul:

"I did not come because I wanted to. It was to prevent her coming--thewife who loved you, and who, God help her, loves you still. She wouldmake 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 theother. 

"Try, then, " he cackled. "You did so well last time, that you've come totry again, eh? Well, you've come too late. Do you remember Parmalee--theboy 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 damnedfools 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. "Callme _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 wholeone 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 thatwhich he had seen, a glimmer of hope. He had heard of men like this whohad come back to life--to reason. It might be fever--fever and drink; andit might be that the fever could be stayed--the drink conquered. JohnSchuyler had been a strong man. Surely it could not be that in so short atime he had been dragged to the grave's very edge. Lack of attention, lack of care, lack of medicine and nursing and discipline were probablylargely responsible. The man might be awakened--brought to himself. Itmight 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. "Whatis there left of me to save? I'm a husk--squeezed dry. I'm a memory--anightmare. They are calling me--Young Parmalee, Rogers, Seward Van Dam. Idrink to them, now, even as they drink to me--scorching in their hole inhell!" He rose weakly to his feet, raising a dirty glass in whichsplashed a little amber liquor. 

Came to Blake the thought that, even though Schuyler could not beredeemed to manhood, he might at least, be saved from death, or worse. Hemight at least be made again into the semblance of that which he hadbeen. He started forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk, face closeto 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 canchange your name--make a new start--build yourself a new character--a newhonor. 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 meeverything that makes life worth living. She's taken honor and manhoodand self-respect--wife and child and friends--everything--everything but--this!" He patted the bare bottle before him. And then: "Let's drink, " hemuttered. 

Blake sprang forward, desperation overwhelming him. 

"My God, this is awful!" he exclaimed. "Haven't you a spark of manhoodleft? 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 bea last resort. Deliberately, not in anger, but in the desperation of astrong man who plays his last card for his ultimate stake, he leanedacross the table and deliberately struck Schuyler in the face. It was ahard thing to do; but there are things that so demand. Blake knew that ifthis time he failed to arouse whatever of latent, atrophied manhood theremight be in the breast of the other, that never again, probably, wouldthe shrivelling brain come within call. So he struck; and, following thestaggering 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 thingthat was once a man! You made in God's image? Why, there isn't a swinethat wouldn't be ashamed to roll in the same gutter with you!"

With stinging words and stinging blows, he pursued the stumbling figureacross the room. Schuyler fell. Blake kicked him, sending foot againstbody, heavily. 

"Get up, you beast!" he ordered. And then, in the horror of it all--inthe awful of horror of the hurt of the thing that he was doing: "GreatGod! Will nothing awaken you?"

Schuyler was scrambling weakly to his feet. In dulled eyes there was alittle 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.... Blakestepped back, gladness in his heart. 

He had called him back so far. He would call him back the rest!

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. 

AGAIN THE BATTLE. 

Schuyler staggered, stumbled to his feet, thin hands clutching forsupport 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'scontorting 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 wasJohn Schuyler that sat slumped into the chair, gazing up at the friendwho 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 theroom, eyes expanding, contracting, like those of a man who, having beenlong 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 mindcleared 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 wereclarifying into an accurate whole. He nodded again. 

"There's still a chance for you, Jack. " Blake continued, earnestly, allhis force in his words. "There's still a chance for you. You're going tobe 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 arewasted, gone. There's no chance, Tom. It's too late!"

"No!" cried Blake! "There is happiness for you--real happiness--the righthappiness! 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 ofthe true woman--the wife who loves you. Think of the little one who usedto put baby hands around your neck and try to tell you all the beautifulthings that only children know. That is what will save you now, Jack--andonly 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 tookit, gripping it in his own. 

"I'll go, Tom. I'll go. " Came to him a touch of that from which he hadbeen 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'sgo now, Tom. Take me away! For the love of God who has forsaken me--whomI have forsaken--take me away! Save me from her--from myself--My bloodhas turned to water, and my bones to chalk! My brain has withered! GoodGod! What has come over me! To think that I, who could once look in theeye 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, thedisgrace, the loss of honor--of everything, were new to me. I couldn'tunderstand. Then I cursed myself. I swore to God that I wouldn't becomethe thing I am. But He didn't help me; and I couldn't help myself. Itried! Ah, how I tried! But there was something--her eyes, it was--eyesthat burnt and seared!--I tried to kill myself, as Parmalee did. Icouldn't.... And the only forgetfulness lay in drink--drink that sappedmy strength and drained my veins and shrivelled my brain. Tell me it's adream, Tom--that it's all but a vile, horrible, grewsome dream! Tell methat I'm the kind of a man you are! the kind of a man I once was! Anddon't hate me, Tom. Don't loathe, and despise me, all; but pity me alittle--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 overhim, gently, and lifting him, helped him to the great chair. There was agreat, unselfish gladness in his heart. But that gladness had changedswiftly to horror. He stood back aghast. For there had entered the roomKathryn, and Muriel. 

The horror of it all did not show in the eyes of the wife. She would notlet 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 littleform 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 knewshe 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!" Hebent his head. 

"Yes, little sweetheart, " he answered, in shaking tone, "very ill. Godgrant 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 bothquivered, now. 

"And we can play horsie?" she asked. 

"Yes, " he assented. He essayed to lift her; but even the tiny weight ofthe little form was too much for his shattered strength. His head sunkupon 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 alightness of tone and of word that lay farthest from his thought. He laidhis hand lightly on Schuyler's shoulder. 

"Come, Jack, " he said crisply. "It's quite all right. There's no causefor anything but gladness. I'll see them to the hotel, and come back foryou. "

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. Blakeknew that he needed time to regain his self-command. He took Muriel bythe 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 slowlyKathryn 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 greatis Thy goodness! The shame of it all! The shame! The utter, uttershame! ... And you, Kathryn, can forgive!"

"I can forgive, John, dear. I do forgive. It was not your fault. Is itthe fault of the bird that he goes to his death when the eyes of thesnake 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'sbeen a dream, John--a bitter, bitter dream. But we are awake, now--awakeat last. And we'll never dream again--never. "

She rose. Violet eyes were moist. She turned away, a little, that hemight 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 toboth of us. And I want to be alone--to try to realize that the chance ismine to redeem myself. I want to ask God to try to forgive me, and, inHis 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, ashe 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 wasglad, glad unselfishly. She could give him happiness. Would there ever behappiness for her? She was afraid.... Yet she was glad--glad as Blake wasglad--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 wasweak--weak unto the weakness of death. His soul was torn and tossed andtwitched 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 lookeddown. It was a bit of broken mirror.... He stooped and picked it up. Thelight upon the table was on. He turned it so that it might illumine withits merciless rays the last cruel line upon his face.... Slowly, holdingthe 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 whohad not forsaken him. He would make atonement in as far as it lay withinpossibility--and to the child that was of him and of her he would makeatonement. He was but a young man; many years of life should lie beforehim; and of these years he would give, give all, and ask nothing. It wasthe 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 wouldcarry 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 withevery movement of her delicate body. She was beautiful--beautiful as ananimal 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 verypleasant 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 manhoodand the life and the soul out of him, won't you? And then Parmalee, andRogers, and Van Dam will laugh at him from their hole in hell. And I'lllaugh 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 thathad been a man. She slid to the desk, seating herself upon it, swingingsmall, perfectly shod feet with slender silk-clad ankles. 

"So it's all over, " she remarked, musingly. "Yet it was sweet while itlasted, wasn't it, My Fool?--sometimes. " She tossed at him contemptuouslya glowing crimson blossom which she ripped from the great mass at herrounded breast. She went on:

"Those days on the Mediterranean, under the blue skies. And Venice, withthe dim silence all about, and the soft night breezes whispering theirstrange 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?--atleast, you did. " She laughed again; again she cast at him a crimsonblossom, maliciously, tantalizingly. "And Paris. That was good, too--differently. The gay crowds on the Bois, and the races at Longchamps, andthe little place in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs--and Saint Antoine, inthe Norman hills--and the fuss they made over the newly-wedded couple! Itwas while we were there, if you will remember, Fool, " she went on, invoice caressing but words that stung, "on the morning that we first hadbreakfast under the grape arbor, with its young green leaves and noddingpromises 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!"

"Amedee served us that morning, " she continued, unmindful; "or was itFrancois?--no, Amedee. He spilt the coffee upon the table cloth twice, inhis anxiety lest he embarrass us. And when you kissed me, " with a littleripple of mirth, "he looked the other way, covering his lips with hishand. Oh, admirable Amedee! ... The breeze was stirring that morning, Fool--do you remember?--and the dead leaves of yester-year fell about us--so!" She plucked a great handful of crimson petals from her breast andcast them above her head. They fell about him, and about her. "And Idipped sugar in my coffee and fed it to you, and you let me read yourwife's letter. " Again she laughed. 

Through his clenched teeth came a muttered curse. 

"It was interesting, drolly interesting.... That letter. " she continued. "She couldn't understand why your mission detained you so long!"

Yet again she laughed, merrily, ringingly. Suddenly she shifted, lithely, the poise of her body. 

"Bah! I weary of this, and of you.... But before I go, " she leaned farforward, eyes on his, vivid lips curved, bare breast shimmering, "a kiss, My Fool!"

"Why do you come here?" he cried, piteously. "Have you not done enough?Is there no pity in your heart--no sympathy--no human feeling of anykind?"

"I've heard you say so, in other days, " she smiled. 

"Let me go, " he begged. "Haven't you done enough? There is no misery thatI have not suffered--no degradation that I have not reached--no depths towhich I have not sunk--no dishonor that I have not felt. Great God! Whatmore do you want of me?"

He was a pitiful object, sunken, shrivelled, abject. She looked on himwith eyes that revealed only amusement--amusement, and power. 

She asked, lightly:

"What more could I want of you? What more have you to give, My Fool?"

"There's a chance for me, " he pleaded, hysterically; "a little, pitifulchance. Can't you find in that dead thing you call a heart just one shredof pity that I may have that chance that is held out to me? I don't askmuch in return for all that I have given--just to be let alone.... Ah, go! Go! Please, please go!"

He was on his knees now, thin hands raised in beseeching. She looked downon him from where she sat, upon the desk, little feet swinging. Sheraised delicate, arched brows. 

"Anyone would think, " she declared, "that I had done wrong by you. "

He struggled erect. 

"By God, I'll have my chance!" he cried. "I'll have it in spite of you!Do you hear? Go!"

"In good time, My Fool, " she returned, easily. "When you shall haveceased to amuse me. "

"You'll go now, " he insisted, frenziedly. "Now!"

He stumbled forward, to grasp the white, rounded arms. She caught hiswrists, holding him easily. 

"You're not so strong as you were, you know, " she said, lightly. Suddenlyshe thrust him from her, reeling. Her eyes flashed; her lips curved, inscorn. 

"You sicken me. " And then: "You asked me if I had had all I wanted ofyou. I have, and more. And now I'll go, and leave you to your 'chance!'But not until--"

She had risen, and gone to the great chair. Into it she sank. He wasbefore her.... She leaned forward, eyes heavy lidded, white armsextended, white teeth glowing, white shoulders shimmering. She hissed, sibilantly:

"A kiss, My Fool!"

He turned from her.... Turned half back again.... 

"No!" he gasped, weakly.... "No. "

She hissed again:

"Kiss me, My Fool!"

The scarlet roses at her breast moved a little. Her lips were parted.... Her eyes were on his.... 

He cried, thickly, agonizedly:

"I'm free of you! Free, I tell you! I'm going back to wife--to child--tohome--to honor! I'm free!"

Her lips curved. Her breast heaved. Her arms glowed. And her eyes were onhis.... He came a step nearer--another step--yet another.... He wasnearer, now.... She leaned back a little, in the great chair.... 

He was not a man, now. He was a Thing, and that Thing was of her. Handshung slack, loose, at his sides; jaw drooped; lips were pendulous. Only, in his eyes was that light that she, and she alone, knew how tokindle.... He was hers, soul, and body, and brain.... 

Then, suddenly, came of the things that are Unknown. Perhaps came to hisears a voice--to his heart an aid unknown.... His hands stiffened alittle.... And then he leaped upon her. 

She saw; she had half risen.... Back they went over the great chair, hisbody on hers, his fingers clutching at her rounded throat. For a moment, they writhed. She screamed, once.... Then, suddenly, his twisted fingersrelaxed.... His head fell back. His body, inert, rolled from hers, turnedagain as it struck the chair, and fell, a thing crushed and dead, at herfeet.... 

She rose, breathing hoarsely from between red, parted lips. There weremarks upon her throat.... Perhaps, again, she had overestimated herpower.... And yet it were not to be sure of this.... 

Her skirt-hem lay beneath his body. She stooped, lithely, disengaging it. His fingers clutched torn petals of crimson roses.... She looked.... Thenvivid lips parted, and she laughed, a little. 

Of that which is known, she knew but little; of that which is unknown, she knew much. Perhaps it is a small thing, after all, to wreck a life. 

 * * * * *

When they came back, they found him there, alone. He lay prone, on therug, before the great chair. The moonlight was upon his face; which wasnot well. Crimson petals, like drops of blood, were upon it; and theredness was crushed between his clutching fingers. 

Muriel did not see; for the friend such as few men may ever hope to haveand, having, may pray to keep, had thrust the child behind him. 

For a long, long time they stood there.... Then slowly, the woman thathad been wife turned--her head sunk forward.... She had suffered much, and yet there was in her still the power to suffer; but it was now thesuffering of pity--of utter, utter pity.... Head sunk forward, she reeleda little. The man, standing beside her, caught her in strong arm, thatshe might not fall.... For a tiny moment she rested there--the only restthat she had known since It had come into her life. And who shall saythat she was wrong? or he?

Side by side they stood, and gazed upon their dead. They held the littlechild that she might not see.... Then slowly they turned, and left.... And in the end, perhaps, came to them of God the happiness that theydeserved from Him. Perhaps, even it was a happiness refined of thesuffering through which they both had passed; for, to know greathappiness one must have known great sorrow. 

Upon the Altar of Things are made, oft-times, strange sacrifices--sacrifices that we cannot understand, made in a way that we do notcomprehend. For God has shown us, even the wisest of us, but little ofthe world in which we live. 

THE END.