A Fool There Was

by Porter Emerson Browne

It had been arranged that Blake, again, was to go to him first. Little had been heard of John Schuyler, of late. A drop to desuetude may of its last half be far more silent than of its first. One gathers momentum, as one descends, whether the descent be physical, or moral. At the inception comes the gradual slipping—the vast, frantic effort to stay that slipping—the exertion, the hysteria, the fright, the remorse, the stretching out of hands to aid and of souls to help…. Then, things become different. There comes a vast silence. The hands draw back; the souls are hidden; and when Hope itself lifts its pinions and soars away, then there be little left indeed.

John Schuyler, deserted of friends, deprived of all usefulness in the life that he had loved, found it to be so; and, finding, tried to think no more…. If only the Great God would take from him his brain! … But He did not….

All were gone from him now save She—The Woman. The doctor came occasionally when summoned by Parks—Parks who had known and loved in other days. And the coming of the doctor, and of Her, were the only things that marked the beginning of the days, and the ending thereof. He lived in the study a part of the time, a part of the time in his rooms. The rest of the house knew him not; and the great out-of-doors, even in its warrenated streets of the city, but seldom. And from the study, at least, all save She were excluded.

He had been worse that day—much worse. Parks had stayed indoors all day, listening. As night came on, he had become frightened. The telephone in the hall had been out of order; and he had taken upon himself the liberty of entering the forbidden demesne; for the doctor must be called.

The door of the library-study creaked as he opened it…. He stopped upon the threshold, aghast.

This could not be the same room that he had seen so short a time before. He looked about him, in horrified disbelief. Before him there lay the very essence of dirt and disorder. Furniture was broken, overturned. Rugs were askew, wrinkled. The desk, upbearing broken bottles and a cluttered mess of paper, letter and debris of all description, was scratched and dented. Pictures sagged drunkenly upon the walls; hangings were torn, and draggled, and over all lay a pall of dust, dank, choking.

Slowly, dreadingly, horror gripping his heart, Parks crossed the room to the desk. He picked up the telephone from where it rested amid the litter and placed the receiver to his ear. The voice of the operator came to him across the wire.

"Hello," he called, "Give me 2290 Plaza, please."

At length there came to him an answer. He inquired:

"Is this Dr. Grenelle's office?" It was the doctor himself. "This is Parks—Mr. Schuyler's secretary…. He is worse—much worse…. You had better send someone to take care of him. I am going away…. Yes, that's all. Goodbye."