A Fool There Was Part 31

Came to Blake's mind now, stricken and wracked as it had been, by that which he had seen, a glimmer of hope. He had heard of men like this who had come back to life--to reason. It might be fever--fever and drink; and it might be that the fever could be stayed--the drink conquered. John Schuyler had been a strong man. Surely it could not be that in so short a time he had been dragged to the grave's very edge. Lack of attention, lack of care, lack of medicine and nursing and discipline were probably largely responsible. The man might be awakened--brought to himself. It might be possible--

Speculatively, not realizing that he spoke aloud, he asked of himself:

"Is there a chance left? Is there one little chance left, to save him?"

Again Schuyler had heard.

"What would be the use?" he queried, dully. The liquor was pa.s.sing. "What is there left of me to save? I'm a husk--squeezed dry. I'm a memory--a nightmare. They are calling me--Young Parmalee, Rogers, Seward Van Dam. I drink to them, now, even as they drink to me--scorching in their hole in h.e.l.l!" He rose weakly to his feet, raising a dirty gla.s.s in which splashed a little amber liquor.

Came to Blake the thought that, even though Schuyler could not be redeemed to manhood, he might at least, be saved from death, or worse. He might at least be made again into the semblance of that which he had been. He started forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk, face close to Schuyler's own.

"Jack!" he cried, commandingly. "Look here! I want to talk to you!"

Schuyler slumped again into the depths of his chair. He looked up, dully.

"Yes?"

"Listen!" Blake demanded. "Listen closely. There's a chance for you yet!

We'll take you away somewhere--for a year--five years--ten years. You can change your name--make a new start--build yourself a new character--a new honor. There's still happiness for you, Jack! We'll go and find it! Come!

Shall we?"

Schuyler answered, dully, with the petulance of the mentally unfit:

"It's too late, I tell you--too late!"

"It's not too late! You'll try! Come!"

"It's too late, I say!" insisted Schuyler, thickly. "She's torn from me everything that makes life worth living. She's taken honor and manhood and self-respect--wife and child and friends--everything--everything but-- this!" He patted the bare bottle before him. And then: "Let's drink," he muttered.

Blake sprang forward, desperation overwhelming him.

"My G.o.d, this is awful!" he exclaimed. "Haven't you a spark of manhood left? no brains? no bowels? nothing a man can appeal to?"

Schuyler repeated, dully:

"Give me that bottle!"

It was then that Blake came to that which he had mentally intended to be a last resort. Deliberately, not in anger, but in the desperation of a strong man who plays his last card for his ultimate stake, he leaned across the table and deliberately struck Schuyler in the face. It was a hard thing to do; but there are things that so demand. Blake knew that if this time he failed to arouse whatever of latent, atrophied manhood there might be in the breast of the other, that never again, probably, would the shrivelling brain come within call. So he struck; and, following the staggering form, struck again, flat on the face, with open hand, hard, stinging blows. And with these blows he cried, tensely:

"If there's any spirit left in you, I'll arouse it. You pitiful thing that was once a man! You made in G.o.d's image? Why, there isn't a swine that wouldn't be ashamed to roll in the same gutter with you!"

With stinging words and stinging blows, he pursued the stumbling figure across the room. Schuyler fell. Blake kicked him, sending foot against body, heavily.

"Get up, you beast!" he ordered. And then, in the horror of it all--in the awful of horror of the hurt of the thing that he was doing: "Great G.o.d! Will nothing awaken you?"

Schuyler was scrambling weakly to his feet. In dulled eyes there was a little gleam--the little gleam that Blake had tried so hard, so horribly, to bring. The s...o...b..ring lip had set a little and the loose, lax jaw....

There was there the shadow of the John Schuyler that was.... Blake stepped back, gladness in his heart.

He had called him back so far. He would call him back the rest!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

AGAIN THE BATTLE.

Schuyler staggered, stumbled to his feet, thin hands clutching for support at chair arm.

"You struck me!" he mumbled, savagely. "You struck me. You'll fight me-- fight me!"

He lifted weakly, balancing himself upon unsteady, weakened legs. Blake, stepping back, found his hand against a gla.s.s of water. He seized it-- advanced a step--and cast the contents of the gla.s.s full into Schuyler's contorting face....

Schuyler slowly came to himself. The shock of the blows--of the words-- and finally of the water against his head, sent the blood to his brain-- banished the liquor, and the dementia, from it.... A weakened, miserable, pitiful imitation he was of the John Schuyler that had been. Yet it was John Schuyler that sat slumped into the chair, gazing up at the friend who had proven his friends.h.i.+p so often and so well.

Schuyler sat for a moment, eyes blinking. At length his hand went forth, slowly.

"h.e.l.lo, Tom," he said. "I'm glad to see you." Puzzled eyes went about the room, eyes expanding, contracting, like those of a man who, having been long asleep, awakens to find himself in a place unfamiliar.

Blake went to him, leaning over him.

"You can understand me now?" he asked, tensely.

Schuyler looked up.

"Why, yes," he replied. "Of course, Tom. Of course I can understand you."

Eyes again sought to solve the mystery of the room; for from the mind cleared had fled all memories of the mind uncleared.

Blake cried:

"You are coming away with us, Jack--away from this h.e.l.l-snake of yours!

You're coming today--now! Do you understand?"

Schuyler nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I understand." In his mind the real and the unreal were clarifying into an accurate whole. He nodded again.

"There's still a chance for you, Jack." Blake continued, earnestly, all his force in his words. "There's still a chance for you. You're going to be strong, and become a man again! Tell me that you will!"

"It's too late, Tom," he replied. There was in the words sadness, despair, hopelessness unutterable. "It's too late. Body, mind, soul are wasted, gone. There's no chance, Tom. It's too late!"

"No!" cried Blake! "There is happiness for you--real happiness--the right happiness! Your wife--your child--"

"Don't speak of them," Schuyler moaned. "Don't! ... Don't!"

"You must think of them, Jack. It's there that salvation lies. Think of the true woman--the wife who loves you. Think of the little one who used to put baby hands around your neck and try to tell you all the beautiful things that only children know. That is what will save you now, Jack--and only that! Think.... Think!"