eye.
"Now," cried Blake, hope in his heart--hope ringing in his voice, "will
you be a man, or a thing that earth, nor heaven, nor even hell has room
for?"
[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 resting
on 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 became
a mere broker!" And to Blake: "Why once or twice I myself became almost
enthusiastic. Really, sir, you are a most convincing speaker--though if
you 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 to
see the man that had been his friend, there had been in his breast but
little hope. Later, however, he had understood better; and there had
awakened 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 had
fought. He had almost won. But now, he knew that he had lost; for in
Schuyler'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 none
among libertines."
He took his hat from where it lay amid the confusion of the table. He
bowed, first to the woman, then to Schuyler. He was a proud man--a strong
man. It hurt him to lose--and the more because the stake had been so
great.... He passed across the room, and through the door, closing it
behind him.
Upon the woman, still laughing in the delight of her success, Schuyler
rounded. There was in his heart, too, a great bitterness--a great hurt.
For he, too, realized how near he had been to salvation--and that
realization 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 against
the back of the great chair.... His head sunk slowly upon his arms....
There came suddenly from the stairway a little, delighted, cry in
childish treble.
"Daddy! Daddy, dear!"
Schuyler, head buried, thought at first that it was but within himself
that he heard--that it was that other sense--that unknown sense--that had
called him.... The cry came again.... Slowly he raised his head, and
looked....
A great, cold clutch tore his heart. His veins stiffened. His head
reeled. He staggered, back, clutching for support, at the chair. Even
this had come to him!
It was she--his daughter--the child of his wife, and of himself--the
child that had been his to love when still he had been man.
The little one was scampering down the stairs, tiny feet pattering upon
thick carpet. Her eyes were dancing; her lips smiling; there was in her
the 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 not
see--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 left
her while she was talking to a p'liceman.... Oh, daddy, dear! When are we
coming home? I miss you so much!"
The woman moved forward, eyes upon the kneeling, soul-torn man; and upon
the 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.... Again
she smiled, a little.... There were some things that she understood, that
were of the Known.
The child was speaking:
"And, daddy," she said, "mother dear isn't a bit well. Mawkins and I are
dreadfully 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 the
matter is, she just shakes her head and says, 'Nothing, dearie. Mother's
tired.' 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--the
awful, ghastly, horror of the things that he had done--was obsessing him
body and soul and brain and heart. The fires of the uttermost hell were
flaring through his very being.
Then it was that the woman beckoned to the child of the man that belonged
to 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. She
seized the child, clasping her to her. And once, twice, thrice, she
kissed her, on the lips.... The man awoke. He staggered to his feet....
Through the door came Blake. He, too, saw; and while he did not
understand all, he understood enough.
Across the room he sprang. He tore the child from the now yielding arms
of the woman! Holding tight against him the little one that he loved as
his 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 play
even farther, when one really knows one's strength.... The woman had
possibly overestimated her prowess--and yet possibly she had not--it were
hard to tell of one who knows the things that we do not--who does not
know the things that we do. There was manhood, and honor, and decency in
Schuyler yet--a little, of a sort. He struck her in the face--full upon
the vivid, crimson lips--and a little of their crimson seemed to leave
its lair. It trickled down upon the dead whiteness of her skin.... But
she still smiled. Her white arms went forth languorously. Her lithe,
slender, beautiful body undulated. Her eyes were on his.... She still
smiled....
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 eyes
were on his; and she still smiled.... She gauged her power well. Perhaps,
at times, she flattered it, a little--but never much.... She still
smiled.... 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 got
in beside her. Her little mind was in great puzzlement; and of Blake she
began to ask the countless questions that flew to her lips. "Why was
daddy living there, when mother dear and she were with Aunt Elinor?" "Who
was the lady that she had seen, and did he know her?" "Was daddy living
there 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 heart
ached within him sorely.... Almost he wished that he were a woman; the
relief of tears would have meant much.
With childish, wondering question stinging deeper and yet more deep, he
watched the stream of traffic swirl past--car and cab, brougham and 'bus.
They were on the Avenue--Fifth Avenue, like which there is no other
street in our land.
On they went, past great club, past rows of magnificent residences, past
towering 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 thing
of green, with its arching trees. Uniformed nurses were wheeling little
perambulators; others were watching active, tousled-headed little
charges. Anon there flashed past a group of galloping riders.
At length they turned into a side street. The car stopped before a house
of brick and stone, with wrought-iron lattices. Blake got out, lifting
the child.
The butler admitted them. Mrs. VanVorst was in, he said, in response to
Blake's query; Mrs. Schuyler was out....
It had been some time since Blake had seen Kathryn. She had been very
ill, very ill--ill almost unto death. This had followed the receipt of a
letter from John Schuyler--a letter which made futile all their efforts
to spare her suffering--a letter in which he had been condemned of his
own hand. Dr. DeLancey had labored hard, and well. In the end she was
saved. But Dr. DeLancey was an old man--a very old man; and, when he had
seen that she was saved, he himself had passed away. Possibly it was as
well; for he was a lonely old man, you know; and those few whom he loved
had brought him much suffering. It was a strange letter, that letter that
had wrought so much--a letter utterly unlike the man who wrote it. It
was, in part:
"... God himself only knows how I feel. I can scarce believe that it is
I 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 is
simply an end of me that is not death. Would to God it were. Death would
be welcome--even a death of torture refined. There is nothing that I
could say that you would understand for nothing that I could say would I
myself understand. It is simply the end.... I hope I am insane. Yet I
fear that I am not.... I am a ship without a rudder. My will is gone from
me; I have no volition of my own--no soul--nothing. All that is left of
me is a body, and the power still to suffer, and for the rest, only a
great 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 to
death than to life.... Now she was better; and yet far from well. Violet
eyes 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 topic
carefully avoided.
One day Kathryn had said that she must go to see Schuyler. They had tried
to dissuade her; without success. This was to have been the day. So Blake
himself had gone, eager to bear for her the shock, should there be a
shock 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 of
all her friends only Blake, trying with all her pride, with all her
strength, to adjust herself to the new order of things. It had been a
weary winter--a winter that dragged along on laggard feet, loitering,
waiting.
The love of Muriel, the sympathy of Elinor, the devotion of Blake were in
it the only bits of brightness. She felt strange--lost--astray. By day,
she was dull, listless. At night sometimes, she slept a little; at others
she would bury her face in her tumbled pillow, and her lithe body would
heave with the wracking of her sobs; for the entire structure of her life
had been ruthlessly torn down by the hand of one man. It seemed to her
that from its ruin nothing might ever be erected.
She told this to Blake, one day. Side by side, they had been sitting by
the window, gazing out into a sleet-swept street where horses slipped and
slid, 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 this
world that we do not know, and that happiness sometimes come whence we
least expect it. He did not say these things with any great degree of
confidence. In his own life, there had been but little save longing
unsatisfied, prayers ungranted. But she took from it comfort--even though
there seemed in it so pitifully little from which comfort might be
derived. Perhaps it was the way in which he said it; or perhaps it was
because 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 the
lighter shoots of crocus, and lily, and the buds of the trees. Spring
grew; and the stolid phalanx of city homes began to don their summer
armor of boards, and blinds and shaded windows.
And then the Larchmont place was opened. John Schuyler had sent to
Kathryn the deed of it; the one request that he had made was that she
continue to live there--that she take Muriel there.
During all this time no word of him had come to her. Blake had heard. But
no 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, that
was John Schuyler's may not fall to desuetude unwatchful. And Blake
heard, at clubs, at theatres, wherever men congregate, of Schuyler, and
of the life that was his. And he, as little as they, could explain.
Schuyler was drinking, they told him--drinking hard. The woman? Was she
still in New York? Yes; she had been seen at the opera; she had been seen
driving in the Mall. A damnable strange case, the whole thing. Grewsome!
And, save Blake, they would wash the taste of it all from their mouths
with liquor. Devilishly good fellow, Schuyler. Brainy, too. He would have
been 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. You
know how it is, yourself. When a man gets into the hands of a woman like
that, what can you do? Say anything against her, and you have to fight
him. Tell him he's a fool and he tells you to mind your own business. Try
to reason with him, then? If the man had any reason left in him, there
would 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 they
reasoned. 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 tender
blossoms from the wealth before her. Beside her, Muriel, little skirt
upheld, 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 tan
had 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 I
love 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 I
am." 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 he
is now! I can hear him winding up his boat!"
She rang at headlong speed through that arbor way. Another moment and
Blake had entered, carrying her in his arms. Kathryn extended her hand to
him; 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 a
sailors' 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 us
exceedingly 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 make
head nor tail of them."
"Of course you can't," he said, assuringly. "I never know what my lawyers
are 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 it
sound like a royal proclamation announcing a total change of the currency
system. They're like doctors and clairvoyants. Their graft lies in being
mysterious. Why does a doctor call pink eye _muco puerpural
conjunctivitis_? Because pink eye is not worth more than a dollar at
the outside; but when he hands you _muco puerpural conjunctivitis_,
he can get twenty-five at least before you wake up and say, 'Where am
I?'"
His humor, perhaps, was forced; possibly there was nothing funny in what
he said; but they laughed. There was always a tension at "Grey Rocks,"
now--always a strain. It needed little to relieve it; it needed that
little badly. Blake gave to that little all that he could.
Even the child felt the tension, and the strain of it. She could not have
told what it was; but she missed something beside her daddy, infinite was
her longing for him, and her loneliness without him.
At times she used to beg the dignified Roberts to play buck-jump, and
tag, with her, as "daddy used to do." And this she did while Blake and
her mother and her Aunt Elinor were in the library, going over the
troublesome papers with their imposing seals and undecipherable writing.
"I've been looking for you everyw'ere, Miss Muriel," the butler
announced, impressively. Everything that Roberts did was impressive.
"Were you, Woberts?" she queried. "You didn't want to play hide-and-go
seek, 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 of
pride--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 Blake
came upon a red-faced and puffing butler engaged in giving a most
realistic imitation of a bear, while a delighted little girl, clapping
tiny hands in glee, adjured him to growl as bears growl, not as cows
growl.
It was another welcome little break in the tension. And for that it was
welcome; welcome, that is, to all but him of the outraged dignity. And
even he, though he puffed and huffed below stairs, deep down in his heart
was glad that he had sacrificed his most precious possession in such a
cause.
[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 about
it."
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 of
myself that counts."
"That may be true," her sister retorted; "but it's too idealistic for
this 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 live
with, he isn't good to be married to."
"But," Kathryn protested. "I can't live with him, Nell! You know as well
as 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 forever
being honest neither with him nor with yourself--compromising on the one
hand with your womanhood, on the other with your selfishness? How long
has it been since you made the slightest effort to see him, or to send
anyone to him?"
Kathryn answered, slowly:
"Not since the time I tried to go, and Tom went before me. I--I have
thought, often, of going.... But, somehow, I've been--afraid." In almost
a whisper, she repeated, "Yes.... Afraid!"
Elinor VanVorst raised her shoulders in an expressive gesture. It
conveyed more plainly than could words that her end of the argument was
done--her case was rested.
Kathryn considered long, earnestly, in silence. Divorce him! Divorce John
Schuyler! It had occurred to her--it had occurred to her in the long
silences 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 could
have been. He had been a man of whom her head was proud and her heart
fond with the great love that lies in the heart of a good woman. He it
was, and God, who had given her the little child that she could see from
where she sat, rolling, a tumbled little heap of white lace and whirling
brown legs on the broad expanse of the green lawn. He it was who had
taken 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 had
stretched even her very life to the breaking point, and drained from it
the 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 was
hidden--something unknown and unknowable....
Long, she thought, and earnestly--as she had thought so many, many times
before--times without end.... At length she rose. Firm little chin was
set; 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'll
go to him."
Elinor caught her hand.
"Kate!" she pleaded. "Kate, dear, listen to me! I haven't shown you your
duty if that's what you consider your duty.... I'll tell you something
that 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, as
wife?" 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? ... how
utterly impossible?"
Torn of anguish, of inability to solve the problems that God had laid
before 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: