Chapter 35

THE THING THAT WAS A MAN.

Schuyler came down the stairs slowly, leaning heavily against the broken balustrade. He laughed a little, wildly, with the mirthless chill that is of a maniac. His knees bent; he staggered.... And he laughed again....

At first Blake did not know him.... Then, knowing, he could not believe that his eyes brought to his brain the truth.... This was not John Schuyler. It could not be John Schuyler. It was not possible. John Schuyler was at least a man--not a palsied, pallid, shrunken, shriveled caricature of something that had once been human.... John Schuyler had hands--not nerveless, shaking talons.... This sunken-eyed, sunken- cheeked, wrinkled thing was not John Schuyler--this thing that crawled, quiveringly--from the loose, pendulous lips of which came mirth that was more bitter to hear than the sobs of a soul condemned.

Blake's soul was curdled; his senses were numbed; but still his eyes could look.

The ghastly figure stopped in the moonlight, at the landing of the stairs. White, claw-like hand clutched at the drunken curtain and ripped it from its fastenings. The pale light of the moon fell harsh upon it.... Blake shut his eyes....

When again he looked, the figure was at the desk, fumbling with a key.... A drawer screeched in protest. Came from it a rattling as a cadaverous hand drew forth a bottle.... And the thing that had been John Schuyler guzzled.

It laughed again, then, in hollow, mad glee. It staggered forward. Its hollow eyes fell upon the letter that Parks had left. Clutching fingers unsteadily tore end from envelope--drew letter from covering, and hollow, leaden eyes gazed.

Came another wild burst of laughter gone mad. A voice, thick, weak, muffled, weird, said:

"Another enveloped insult. From Parks, the good and faithful Parks." Dull eyes read. "Your employment has become impossible." The letter fell to the floor; the voice cried: "The rats desert the sinking ship!" It chuckled: "Wise rats. Sensible rats!" And then dead eyes saw the man who stood before him.

"You?" They peered, like those of a fish. "Good! I'm glad to see you, even though you have come to scorn, and abuse, and hate. It's a lonely hell, this--lonely."

Blake answered, bitterness in his soul:

"I did not come because I wanted to. It was to prevent her coming--the wife who loved you, and who, God help her, loves you still. She would make one last effort to save you."

Schuyler laughed again.

"There's nothing left to save," he chuckled.

"I know; but I'll try for her sake."

Schuyler lurched into a chair. In ghastly playfulness he looked upon the other.

"Try, then," he cackled. "You did so well last time, that you've come to try again, eh? Well, you've come too late. Do you remember Parmalee--the boy who killed himself? The boy that I called a fool?" He laughed, sardonically. "He's got me now--he, and Van Dam, and Rogers--three damned fools scorching in a hole in hell.... 'A fool there was'" he quoted; then, stopping, suddenly, he half rose, weakly, to his feet.

"Listen!" he cried.

There came utter silence.

"Did you hear?" he queried, triumphantly. "Did you hear her calling?"

It was more than Blake could bear.

"Jack!" he cried, tensely. "Jack!"

Schuyler rounded on him. "Don't call me that!" he said, petulantly. "Call me _the Fool_."

Blake shook his head, in the gripping horror of it all.

"It makes me sick," he murmured, to himself, "sick at heart!"

Schuyler had heard.

"It makes me sick, too," he cackled. He pointed to the shattered mirror, above the mantel. "Do you see that?" he demanded. "There isn't a whole one in the house. I don't dare to look at myself."

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 passing. "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 hell!" He rose weakly to his feet, raising a dirty glass 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 God, 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 God'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 God! 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 slobbering 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!