A Fool There Was Part 25

"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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l! 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 h.e.l.l 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....

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER THIRTY.

AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.