A Fool There Was Part 23

"Stop!" he commanded. "Don't you dare say one word against her, or by G.o.d, I'll--"

She interrupted, rising haughtily before him, and said coldly, incisively:

"You forget yourself. You humiliate yourself. You insult me. I'll say what 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 momentary flash 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 has scorned, 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.

"G.o.d 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 life more sweet." She went to him, leaning toward him, beautiful arms extended, 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; the straight 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 bitter than the sodden shame of a secret sin!"

She replied, lightly, arranging the ma.s.ses of her hair with deft, slender fingers:

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

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

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

THE BATTLE.

The car stopped before the porte-cochere. Blake alighted. He knew well the 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 one has been the friend of such a man as John Schuyler was--when one has felt toward a man as such a man as John Schuyler must be felt toward--when one has known that man to do the things that he has done--when one has seen the misery--the suffering unutterable that he has caused--the shame beyond depth, the grief beyond measurement--and when she upon whom has been heaped this shame and grief and misery and suffering unutterable is the woman one loves--then it becomes not a little thing to go to that man without 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 his friend. There he went, thrusting open the broad door. He paused upon the threshold....

The woman, lifted her head.... She moved away from Schuyler, arranging the dead black ma.s.ses 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 my friend."

"Is the stench then so great that it precludes the common courtesy of announcing your presence?"

Blake made no answer to this.

"I wish to see you alone," he said, simply.

Schuyler half swung from him.