as men in his place would have felt. The love that he had for the dainty
little 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 his
bone. It was the "almost" that hurt; for she was the child of the woman
he loved, and of another man....
To love the wife of another man is a bitter thing--a bitter thing. To
love 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 that
must be borne. To stay--to see day by day the happiness that lieth beyond
hope, were to stand in hell and gaze at heaven. And this were most
bitter, most hard, of all. Yet this was what Blake had done. This was
what Blake would do; and it was what he expected to keep on doing until
there was no such thing as time and the souls of all men were dead. He
did it because all that lay for him in life lay there, even though not
the tiniest bit of it could he claim for his own. And he was a man of
heart, as well as of head, and honor.
Perhaps it was because he had loved the woman who was the wife of his
friend, since the day when she was as her daughter was now; that his love
for the little one that was of her transcended all else in his being--all
else save the one thing that he never mentioned, not even to himself. SHE
had been like that; a dainty, pretty, loving, simple, naive, sturdy,
rugged little thing, with wind-blown hair, and sun-tanned cheeks and
legs--soft, gentle, infinitely appealing, generous, loving. In the little
one that was of her, he saw her again, violet-eyed, glowing with the
glorious abundance of vigor, building wondrous castles of blue beach
clay, counting the soaring gulls against the soft blue of summer skies,
wandering, laughingly, through daisy fields, rolling, a whirling little
tumult of lace and ribbons and wildly-waving bare legs down the stacks of
fragrant hay. She had been like that. Small wonder that on her child he
lavished all the choked tenderness that cried, sometimes, so, so
piteously for outlet.
And as for the child--'way, down deep in her little heart, she had
builded of the infinity of her love, three sky-reaching heaps, each one
bigger, and more wonderful than the other. One of these she gave to her
mother; one to her daddy; and one to "Mr. Tom." And she deemed herself
not 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 his
neck 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 she
sank down contentedly in his lap, and settled her outspreading little
skirt 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 was
a wonderful, wonderful princess. There was a fairy prince, too," he went
on, "a handsome, dashing--a prince that everyone loved and admired and
honored."
She nodded, seriously.
"Yes," she said. "Go on."
"Now in the part of the country--it was called the Land of the Great
Unrest--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, very
eruditely, 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 fat
man, 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 that
you 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 them
don't have whiskers; and some of them wear yachting caps, or panamas, or
most 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, the
gnome loved the princess, too."
"Did she know it?"
He shook his head. "No one knew it but the gnome," he returned. "And the
prince and princess were very happy. Then a little princess came to live
with 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 the
ground, all alone."
"Didn't he ever come out?"
"Yes; he used to come out sometimes to tell fairy stories to little
girls. 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 tell
you 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 he
had never meant to tell. It had come to his lips, as a parable; because
of the way he felt toward the child that was not his; because to her it
would never have meant anything; and because of the things inside that
had struggled for outlet so long. He wondered if she had heard, and
hearing, 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 a
letter, and concluded:
"Read that."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.
A LETTER.
Blake took the letter. With its taking there came to him a premonition
that the things that he had suspected--the things that he had heard--the
things that to him were as unbelievable, as utterly absurd, and
ridiculous, and impossible, as might be the vainest imaginings of the
vainest, had been proven true.
Over the first of the letter, he skipped cursorily.... At length he found
John Schuyler's name. The passage relative to the name was brief. He read
it, slowly, word by word. Then he handed back the letter to Elinor.
She had seated herself, waiting. One knee was crossed over the other; and
over 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 were
children together.... I think you knew her, too.... She's not the woman
to make a charge like that unless it's true."
Blake shrugged his shoulders. A great pain shot through his heart; a
great numbness clamped his brain. He had heard things himself. He had
seen people who themselves had seen, or thought that they had seen. One
man he had knocked down. With two more, his good friends, he had
quarreled irrevocably. And in his own soul, something had told him that
it 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 with
this woman. They were at the same hotel where Martha stayed. And the
morning 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 and
kept 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 my
sister--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," she
said, bitterly. And then: "He should have thought of these things before
he did what he did.... There's one thing to be done, and only one. I
shall 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 men
have two codes of ethics--a loose, convenient one for yourselves, a
tight, uncompromising one for us. There are no two codes of ethics. Right
is right, and wrong is wrong; and there can be no compromise. When a man
marries a woman, he owes to that woman every bit as much as she owes to
him.... Suppose," she went on, tensely, "that it were Kathryn who had
done this thing--who had lied and deceived where she had promised to love
and 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, "I
shall tell her."
Then from the house came Kathryn, happily, gaily. In her hand there was a
letter, a letter with a foreign post-mark, a letter that, from its jagged
end, had been torn open, with eager hands.
"A note from Jack!" she cried.
"What does he say?" demanded Elinor, tensely, her lithe fingers
interwoven.
"Oh, terribly lonely," returned her sister--"trying so hard to finish his
work and get back to us. I'm adding a postscript." She seated herself
before 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 one
knew better than she. She stood, silent, eyes half closed, hands
clenched. 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 swiftly
forward.
"No!" he whispered. "No!"
Elinor put him aside.
"Kate!" she said again.
Blake stood for a moment, hesitant. Muriel had come from the house. To
her he called.
"Come here, little partner."
Obediently, she came running to him. He seated himself, and took her upon
his 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 not
wait for her answer; he spoke swiftly, surely. Elinor, across the table,
eyed him curiously. Kathryn, still writing, was oblivious quite to all
that 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 little
princess; and they cried; but they were brave princesses, so they didn't
cry 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 princess
had a sister. She was a good woman; and, like all good women, she was
hard-headed. The sister heard about the witch, and she wanted to run
right home as fast as she could, and tell all about it. And that would
have 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 other
story!"
"Ah, but," went on Blake, hurriedly, "the sister didn't tell. She wasn't
hard-headed. She listened to the voice of reason, rather than to that of
intuition--"
"What's that word you just said, Mr. Tom?"
"Intuition?"
She nodded.
"Eh--ah," he hesitated, then, "why, intuition is a thing that women use
for a brain. And," he continued, "bye and bye the fairy prince managed to
get away from the wicked witch that had charmed him, and he came back
again to the fairy princess, and the little fairy princess; and though of
course 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.... Do
you 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 hanging
blossom of white, fragrant, spreading. Her eyes were moist; her hand
trembled.
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!" And
then she added slowly, "If women were only as loyal to women as men are
to men!"
[Illustration]
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
AID.
Blake had suspected; but he had refused to believe. Now he knew. And
half an hour later, "The Vagrant," under full head of steam, was surging
down 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 the
chain rattled. Blake's big French car was waiting for him at the pier;
and, with scant regard for the speed ordinances, it bore him swiftly
through the traffic-thronged streets to lower Fifth Avenue, and to the
house of Dr. DeLancey.
The passing of the years had made but little change in either the good
doctor or his abode. His office looked the same--dry and musty. He looked
the same--shrewd and kindly.
"Come in," he said, with the testiness that in him was cordiality
concentrated. "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 the
matter now. Sick? You don't look it. If all my patients were like you and
the Schuylers, I'd starve to death." He fumbled with an old-fashioned
cedar 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 you
have, 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 eyes
showed 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 old
desk.
"Will you stop hemming and hawing and shilly-shallying around and come to
the 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's
ridiculous--impossible--absurd!"
"That's what I've been telling myself for the past month," rejoined
Blake.... "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've
known him since he was born. And I knew his father, and his mother, and
his grandfather and his grandmother before him! Damme, I don't believe
it. 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 it
contained. 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 go
to 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 your
dashed 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 the
sleeve of his coat. His hat was over his ear. He was vainly trying to put
his left glove on his right hand.
"Well?" he blurted, "what are you standing there for like a bump on a
log? Why don't you get started? What's the matter with you, anyhow? Come
on!" He turned, and shouted up the stairs: "Mary! Mary! Ma-a-a-a-ry, I
say! 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 get
home. 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 out
the 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 for
him to sit idly by at such a time; but he felt that it was best. There
was 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; for
he loved the daughter of Jimmy Blair, you know; and it was not alone that
Jack Schuyler was his friend; it was as well that he was her husband, and
the father of her child. So he did not trust himself to go, then; for he
knew that all that he might do, Dr. DeLancey could do, and more.
Dr. DeLancey went, then, alone. In London he found John Schuyler. He did
not announce himself; he bullied and stormed and finally persuaded those
who stood between him and his quarry, to let him go unannounced.
He did not knock. Instead he thrust open the door and entered. Schuyler
was standing before the grate with its burden of glowing coals. He looked
up. He started, rubbing his eyes as one who sees but doesn't believe that
which 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's
waiting 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 practice
and let everything go to the devil to come over here, and I don't want
any of your dashed _buts_ thrown at me. You get your hat and coat and
you 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 you
can'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 on
the 'Transitania,' to-morrow. You're coming now. D'ye hear me? You're
coming now--this dashed instant!"
He advanced upon Schuyler, gripping him by the arm. Schuyler stood for a
brief moment, doggedly. Then suddenly his head dropped forward upon his
breast.
"Very well," he acquiesced, slowly. Suddenly his voice broke. He almost
whispered:
"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 different
John Schuyler from the one they had known. He had refused to shake hands
with either Blake, or the doctor. He did not mention the woman; nor did
they. They tried to be toward him as they had always been--as though all
that had happened alone in imagination.... He did not sleep; he ate but
little; and he drank, some.
Blake was heart-sick--soul-sick. To see the man that he had known and
loved 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 that
he spoke.
In crossing, Schuyler spent much time on a long, long letter--a letter
that required much rewriting. On landing, he mailed that letter to the
daughter of Jimmy Blair.
As, on the pier, he separated from Blake and Dr. DeLancey, in spite of
the insistent pleas of the one, and the testy commands of the other, that
he come to live with them. He said, only:
"I shall go to a hotel. I shall stay there a fortnight. Don't come to see
me. Don't let anyone come to see me. Don't even try to find out where I
am. There's one thing, and only one, for me to do. I'm going to try to do
it.... Sometime, I hope that I may shake hands with you, Tom. Sometime I
want to shake hands with Dr. DeLancey. I want to tell you both all there
is in my heart to tell you. But that time is not yet. God bless you for
all 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 dull
browns and deep greens. All that good taste and a sufficient purse could
do to beautify it--to render it alike pleasing and restful to the eye,
comforting and satisfying to the soul, had been done. Carpeting was deep
and rich. The walls were panelled of mahogany, and the bookshelves sunk
into their dull depths. On either side of the door leading to the hall
hung a painting, the one a Turner, the other a Corregio. There was a
fireplace--a huge fireplace wherein might lie a four-foot log; above it a
mirrored mantel; before it the skin of a jaguar. Across from this, a
narrow 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 had
withered, and fallen. It had been a dun morning, a morning of dull
gray.... Schuyler sat at the big, mahogany desk in the center of his
library. Papers lay spread upon the table before him. A decanter of cut
glass and silver lay there, also.
The Schuyler that had come was different, very, from the Schuyler that
had gone. He was still quick, agile, alert; but there was gone from his
clean-cut face the expression of cheerful optimism--of confident
happiness--of all-spreading good-fellowship. Little wrinkles had gathered
at eye-corners--deeper were the lines that ran from nostrils to the ends
of his mouth. But these changes one might not have noticed were it not
for the eyes. For, from these the light had gone. They were as lamps
unlit.
Yet was there one other change apparent; for while before he had
concentrated easily upon that which he had to do, now it was with
difficulty--almost, even, with impossibility. He paused, often, to pour
from the decanter a little brandy into a small glass, and to drink that
which he had poured. He rose from his chair, to stride nervously, up and
down, up and down. He seated himself only to drink again; he drank again
only 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 of
documents 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 you
to Singapore for those papers instead of merely upstairs."
"I'm very sorry, sir," was Parks' quiet response.