"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 with
a happiness such as mine.... I wonder, sometimes, if I really know how
happy I am. One can get used to happiness, you know, just as to other
things--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 without
the rest. Money is merely an agreeable accessory. To have money and
nothing with it is like having an olive and no cocktail to put it in. If
I eat what I like, I get sick. I'm always either forty pounds too heavy
or twenty pounds too light. I'm continually dieting or training and
wondering why in Sam Hill I'm doing either. I have to live alone--to
spend my evening at theatres or clubs--I am a man who would willingly
give up all his clubs for one large pair of pink carpet slippers, and the
theatres for a corpulent, aristocratic Maltese cat, with a baritone
purr."
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'm
sort 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've
nothing much to do. Can't I stick around here? And then you can take Kate
and Muriel with you."
"That's good of you, Tom," said Schuyler, smiling a little. "But a
bachelor around a sick room is of about as much use as an elephant at a
pink tea.... No, Kate and I have talked it all over, and, under the
conditions, 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 was
Parks, 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 little
satchel 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 in
thunder can't I get in once in a while? Nothing would suit me better than
to go over and buy the king a glass of half and half and mix around with
the diplomats and settle the affairs of nations. But they wouldn't let me
send cucumber seeds to the mattress-faced constituency of Skaneateles
county if I should offer to pay for the job. I've got everything I don't
want--except the measles--and everything I do want, I can't get. I want a
home. 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 to
stop being merely ornamental and become useful; but when I say so,
everyone hands me the jocose and jibing jeer and proceeds to lock up
anything that seems to have any relation whatsoever to industry,
commerce, or utility of any kind. And the best I can get is the festive
roof garden, the broad speed-way, and the bounding wave. I wish I were
running this universe. I ain't mentioning no names, but there's a certain
svelte party on my left, whose initials are J. S., who wouldn't have a
monopoly 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, "except
that 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. You
know as well as I do that I don't mean it, and you know that I'm more
glad for your success and happiness and prosperity than I would be for my
own; and that's being some glad." He crossed to where Schuyler stood and
placed his arm about his shoulders, and continued, "good old Jack. Bully
for you. You deserve everything that you have ever won. I'd say I loved
you like a brother if it weren't for the fact that I never had a brother
yet that I could sit through a meal with without wanting to hit him under
the ear with the side-board."
[Illustration: "BYE, LITTLE SWEETHEART"]
The room had become suddenly dark. Came almost without the warning of
preliminary rumble--almost without the precursor of sullen flashing--a
great 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 been
swallowed in the gloom. Above all was a great, black cloud, rimmed of
silver and of gold, a low cloud, thick and threatening. And yet to one
side and the other--in fact save right in its ominous path, one could see
the sunlight on water and on land. Then came the rain, and the wind, and
with them incessant flashings, incessant bellowings, wild protests of the
outraged God of storms. Trees bent and groaned. Flowers, torn from their
tender stalks, lay prostrate in puling puddles. And quick-born waves
lashed themselves spitefully against the pier and breakwater down beyond
the lawn, unseen in the swirling, screaming wildness of it all.
Upon one another Schuyler and Blake turned wondering, amazed eyes. In its
suddenness, the storm was unbelievable. They stood, side by side, gazing
out into the storm.
Suddenly, into the hand of Schuyler stole tiny, frightened fingers. It
was 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 just
a 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, her
gold-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 and
Tom can come on a later train. Parks can come with you. There'll be
plenty of time. It's only that I have urgent business that I must attend
to before sailing."
In a swirl of wind and rain, Parks stepped into the room, and addressing
Schuyler, said:
"We should be starting, sir."
Schuyler nodded. The butler was holding his coat in readiness. He thrust
his arms within the sleeves and, with a shrug of broad shoulders, stood
prepared for departure.
Lifting the little girl that was his own, and of the woman he loved, he
held her for a brief moment tight to his breast. In her little ear he
whispered:
"Bye, little sweetheart."
She clung to him, little hands about his neck.... He set her down again
upon 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. Schuyler
drew her to him, so that she faced him, and whispered:
"Au revoir, big sweetheart.... Don't you dare to cry.... I know how it
hurts; but be a brave little woman.... I'll make my stay just as short as
possible."
"You'll cable?" she asked, tremulously.
"Cable?" he repeated. "I'll keep that wireless snapping all the way
across.... Now let me see you smile."
She tried. It was a wan, sad little smile--a smile that was close of kin
to a tear. She clung to him for a moment; then her fingers loosened their
hold; she stepped back, white teeth holding nether lip. It was bitterly
hard.
He looked; and with more understanding than many a man might have, turned
swiftly.
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'm
going 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 reft
apart with a great, wild flash of lightning--the roar of the thunder was
appalling.
Schuyler started back. He forced a laugh.
"Were I a superstitious man," he remarked, "I might take that for an
omen."
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 of
tread. 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 of
they who live in the froth of life--in the froth that it is hard to tell
from the scum.
He was tall, and well-set-up. His clothes hung well about his body; they
were of fine texture and make, yet unpressed, uncared for. He had been
handsome; but he was no longer; for the eyes looked forth from hollows in
his 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 jostling
throngs to one of the passages. Searching with sunken eyes for a numbered
door, he knocked upon it with the knuckles of his left hand; his right
rested at his side, covered with a handkerchief of white silk.... He
knocked; and stepped back, quickly. There was no answer; the door
remained 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 just
left.
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. Her
cheeks were white; her lips very red. Eyes heavy lidded looked out in
cold, inscrutable hauteur upon the confusion about her. She wore a gown
that clung to her perfectly-modelled figure--that seemed almost a part of
her being. She carried, in her left arm, a great cluster of crimson
roses.
Down the deck she came, slowly, as a queen going to her throne. She
turned....
The man hiding in the passageway confronted her. His eyes were burning as
of 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 came
between clenched teeth.
"You did, eh? You thought you'd throw me over, as you did Rogers, and Van
Dam, 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 the
white forehead of The Woman.
Yet she did not start--she made no sound, no movement. The smile still
dwelt upon her lips. It was only in the eyes that a difference came--in
the black, inscrutable eyes. They gleamed now, heavy-lidded as before.
Their gaze was fixed straight into the sunken, hate-lit eyes of the man
before her, a man who, but for her, might still have been a boy. She bent
forward a little.... Her forehead, between the eyes, was now touching the
bright 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 more
violently. Slowly the mouth of the weapon sank to lips--to chin--to
breast.... It hovered there a moment, just over the heart--the finger
twitched a little--twitched but did not pull. It was a finger governed by
a vanished will in a shrivelled brain.
Then, suddenly, the revolver leaped--the finger pulled. With a shrill
screech of hopeless, hideous imprecation, a shriek that died still-born,
the bullet pierced flesh and bone and brain; and that which had been a
man that should have been a boy, lurched drunkenly and lay a crumpled
nothing upon the deck. There was blood upon the deck--beside the hem of
the crimson gown, near to the crimson heel of her shoe. And the gown was
caught beneath the body of the boy that was.
She looked down upon him. The smile not even yet had left her lips. With
a lithe movement, infinitely graceful, she drew away, disengaging the hem
of her crimson garment.... A crimson petal from the great cluster in her
arms fell upon it, to lie upon the hollow whiteness of the upturned
cheek.... 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 in
the froth of things--the froth that is often the scum--there were
several. 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 are
little. But of the great things, he knew nothing. For of these great
things, God has told us but little.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
A WARNING.
The storm that had come hissing across the Sound did not last long. Its
very fierceness, it seemed, was its own undoing. Its frenzy soon passed.
And anon the sun shone; the drooping flowers raised to it pitiful,
bedraggled little faces; and from the fields, rose the burden of incense,
moist, fragrant giving wet thanks of its coming and of its going.
Schuyler's farewells had been but tentative. It had been understood that,
should the storm abate, Mrs. Schuyler, Muriel and Blake would follow on
the next train; for he himself was forced by the exigency of his mission
to reach the city at least two hours before sailing time.
The car, returning from the trip to the depot, was again called into
service. Parks, as well, had waited, and went with them.
Reaching the city, Blake's machine, for which he had telephoned from
Larchmont, was waiting; and in this they made the journey through the
traffic-thronged New York streets, to the dock; a route that leads one
from wealth to poverty, from respectability to license, from well--doing
to ill-doing, and through all that lies between.
The dock, beside which lay tugging at her cables the huge liner, was
confusion thrice confused. Jolting cabs, rattling taxis, smooth-running
private cars, drays and vans, added to the tumult caused by the hundred--
the thousands--of hurrying, scurrying humanity. Came the calls of excited
passengers, the rumbling of trucks, the Babel-like voices of emigrants;
and, beyond, the noises of the Great River.
Alighting from the car at the gangway, they boarded the ship, with its
crowded decks. Schuyler's stateroom was aft, in the center of the ship.
It lay the first door to the right, as one enters the narrow passageway.
To it the little party made its way.
The door of the room opposite was ajar. Blake noticed that there lay
therein a great mass of crimson roses; scattered amid the toilet articles
and accessories of a woman. Passing through the crowds of the deck, he
had heard, also, The Man Who Knew telling another man, who did not know
of Young Parmalee. It had been but a word. But it had been a word that
had found fructification and meaning in the sight of a deck steward, with
a bucket, mopping up something from the deck, just outside the little
passageway.
Kathryn and Muriel, seen safely to the room that Schuyler was to occupy,
Blake returned and made his way out upon the deck. He stood for a moment
by the steward, watching him.
Then very quietly inquired:
"Where did it happen, Steward?"
The steward, wringing out the mop into the dark water of his bucket,
looked up. There were beads of sweat upon his bronzed, wrinkled brow. Yet
the day was not warm.
"Wot, sir?" he queried.
"Where did it happen?"
"Wot happen sir?"
"Young Parmalee's suicide." Blake spoke quietly, calmly.
The steward's eyes shifted.
"Suicide, sir?" he said. "Don't know nothink about it, gov'ner."
Blake pointed to the spot upon the deck.
"What's that, then?" he demanded.
The steward moved, uneasily.
"A spot I just be'n a-cleanin' of, gov'ner."
Blake pointed to the bucket.
"And that?" he persisted.
"Water, sir."
"And--?"
The steward slowly drew the back of his hand across dry lips. And then,
in a swift rush of strangled words:
"Blood, gov'ner. Blood.... Only a boy he was, sir, and she looked down on
him, laying there with his brains spattered on the deck and she laughed,
sir.... God, sir! She laughed...." He struggled to his feet and pulled
his forelock. He said in altered tones: "Beg pardon, sir. But a man can't
be a blime machine all the time, sir."
There came a call from the state-room.
"Get that bucket away from here. Quick!" And Blake turned to meet the
wife and child of his friend, as they came from the state-room.
"Oh, I do hope Jack won't be late," Kathryn remarked, scanning the decks.
Blake standing between her and the steward, returned with forced
lightness:
"Oh, he has plenty of time. Half an hour at least. Why, once I lost fifty
thousand in the market, broke my steering gear running over a fat
policeman, was arrested, taken to court and bailed out and all within
twenty minutes. Jack's got time to squander."
There was sadness in the violet eyes.
"It will be very lonely when he's gone--very lonely," she mused, slowly.
"Well, it will be as lonely for him as it will for you," Blake returned;
"which is a doubtful consolation, but one that most women don't have."
Muriel had wandered to the rail.
"Oh, I see him!" she cried, suddenly. "There he is! Daddy! Daddy,
dear! ... He's right there on the gangway--right behind that fat lady--
the one with the red nose. I'm going to meet him."
Sturdy little legs started to follow the summons of impulsive little
brain. But her mother detained her.
"No, dearie," she objected. "You'll get lost He'll be here in a moment,
now."
"Not unless he can get by that lady," protested the child. "He's--he's--"
"Pocketed is the word you want, Muriel," assisted Blake. He was looking
in the direction which the child had indicated. Suddenly, he exclaimed:
"I see him now. He doesn't see us, though. Possibly he doesn't know where
his stateroom is. These boats are very confusing. I'll go fetch him."
Blake disappeared in the throngs upon the deck. Muriel turned to her
mother.
"Mother," she implored.
"Yes, dear?"
"Why can't we go, too, mother dear?"
"We must stay to care for Aunt Elinor."
"But she has a doctor and two nurses now," protested the child.
"But," returned her mother, smiling, "that isn't like one's own family."
The child was for a moment sunk deep in thought most serious.
"But why must both of us stay?" she asked, at length. Then, suddenly:
"Mother, dear!"
"Yes little sweetheart?"
"I'll match you to see which one of us goes!"
Mrs. Schuyler, surprised, smiled.
"Why, daughter! Wherever did you learn that?"
"I heard Mr. Tom and daddy the other night. They were sitting in the
library, and Mr. Tom said, 'I'll match you to see who gets the cigars.'
So, mother dear, I thought that you and I might match one another to see
which of us could go with daddy."
Kathryn placed an arm about her, drawing her to her.
"Do you want to go with daddy--and leave mother?" she asked.
The child shook her head, doubtfully.
"No," she said, "not exactly.... I want to go with daddy. I love daddy.
But I want to stay with you, too, mother dear.... Mother dear," she added
suddenly.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Wouldn't it be nice if we were both twins! Then half of us could go with
daddy, and the other half of us stay at home with Aunt Elinor."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
THE BEGINNING.
Schuyler came hurrying down the deck, Blake and Parks close behind.
There was on his face the smile of great gladness. He placed one strong
arm about his wife, the other about his child.
"I've some bully news for you, Kate, dear! The President has so arranged
that I can complete my work and get back to you in less than a month.
Isn't that splendid? Just one little month and I'll be back again with
you and baby."
The child raised her head in protest.
"But I'm not a baby, now. I'm six years old. Mother has to pay full fare
for me on the cars. Don't you, mother?"
Schuyler picked her up from the deck, tossing her in the air.
"No matter what you may be to conductors, you'll always be baby to daddy,
you little darling," he said, brightly. Then, turning to Blake, with
lightness born of great earnestness:
"Take good care of them while I'm gone, won't you, old man. By Jove, I'd
like to chuck it all, even at the last minute as it is, and stay at
home--"
Facing his wife, child and friend, his eyes were up the broad deck. Came
toward him The Woman--The Woman known of The Man Who Knew, and of Young
Parmalee. Schuyler's voice died in his throat. Her eyes were upon him.
His eyes were upon her. She made no movement. She paused not in her
indolent, sinuous walk. Her eyes were upon him; and that was all--dark
eyes, glowing, inscrutable, beautiful with the beauty that was hers. And
his eyes were on hers.... She turned up the narrow passageway in which
lay Schuyler's stateroom.... Blake saw, too. He was not of those who live
in the froth of things--that froth of things that is the scum. But he was
of the world; and they who are of the world have knowledge of all that
that world contains--of all, that is, that it is for such as they to
know.
Kathryn looked up, at length, anxiously. Schuyler was never abstracted.
She prompted:
"You were saying, Jack, dear--"
Schuyler drew his hand, palm out, across his forehead.
"Why--oh, yes," he floundered, trying to marshal his scattered thoughts.
"I was saying--" He appealed to Blake, half-helplessly, half-whimsically.
"By Jove, that's strange. What was I saying, Tom?"
Blake replied, shortly:
"You were asking me to take good care of them."
Schuyler nodded.
"Oh, yes," he assented. And then; "I don't understand. I--but you will
take good care of them, won't you, old man? They're all I have; and more,
they're all I want. Guard them, Tom, for me as though they were your
own."
* * * * *
Waiting to take farewell of those one loves is indeed a sweetness tinged
with bitterness. And if one loves very, very much, it is sometimes a
bitterness tinged with sweetness. Kathryn, lower lip clenched between
white teeth, herself unhappy would have kept that unhappiness as far as
possible hers alone. There were those on board that she knew. To them she
went; for there was still, since time was short, too much of it. Muriel
she took with her.
Schuyler, in his eyes all the virile love that such as he feel for
theirs, watched her vanish amid the throngs. Then, sauntering to the
rail, leaned against it.... There came into his eyes a look of
abstraction, of aberration, of puzzlement. Blake stood watching him--
stood for a long time, silent, unmoving.... At length he moved to
Schuyler's side.
"Old man," he said, very slowly, very quietly, very earnestly; "old man,
what's up?"
Schuyler turned, quickly
"What's up?" he repeated. "What do you mean?"
Blake said, still slowly:
"There's something happened to you."
"Happened," cried Schuyler. "Something happened?" He laughed. "What could
have happened?"
"Damned if I know. But something has. I've got a hunch."
Schuyler answered, lightly:
"Well, you'd better take it to a doctor and have it diagnosed." He half
turned. "It's only my natural nervousness at leaving Kathryn and Muriel--
and the importance of my mission. By the way," he asked, abruptly, "what
was that crowd doing on the dock as I came up?"
Blake, selecting a cigarette, lighted it.
"Suicide," he said, curtly.
Schuyler started.
"You say it mighty cold-bloodedly," he asserted. "Where did it happen?"
"Here, I believe. Almost where we are standing."
"Good God! Who was it?"
"Young chap, named Parmalee."
"What? The boy who's been in the papers so much lately--who disgraced
himself, and his people, for a woman?"
Blake nodded, and continued:
"Did you happen to notice the woman who passed a moment ago?--the one
carrying the red roses?"
Schuyler bent his head.
"I noticed her," he replied, slowly. "What of her?"
"The woman."
"You don't mean Parmalee--?"
"Yes, I do."