A Fool There Was

by Porter Emerson Browne

IN THE NIGHT.

He had told Parks to come to him as soon as they were under way. There were certain letters that he wished to get off in time to send them back on the pilot boat. Parks found him by the rail, gazing at a tall, darkly- beautiful woman reclining in a steamer chair, eyes only visible above a great cluster of crimson blossoms. Parks had spoken to him three times before there was forthcoming a reply. Then, slowly, as a man awakening from a heavy sleep, Schuyler had gone with him to his room.

He had tried to dictate his correspondence; had tried, and failed. There were many mistakes. His thoughts would not seem to coalesce. His mind was not upon what he was doing, nor could he place it there. And Schuyler's was a brain that had always been to him an admirably trained servant, coming when he willed it, doing what he willed and in the way he willed…. But today it was a servant sullen, rebellious, recalcitrant. … The letters remained unwritten. Nothing was sent back with the pilot. And Parks, wondering, puzzled—and, perhaps, a bit perturbed— watched the pilot swing down the Jacob's ladder, and make across the water toward his craft, with wonderment, puzzlement, perturbation no bit abated.

Schuyler paced the deck all that day. Lunch he did not touch. Dinner found him undesirous of food. He was walking—walking—striding up and down, up and down—deep in thought, it seemed—and yet he had not been able to dictate his letters. Parks wondered yet more. At length he went to his employer and asked him if he were not needed. The answer was curt; it was "no." And never before had Parks been answered without a cordial nod, or, perhaps, the good smile of good-fellowship…. He could not understand.

And Schuyler? His brain was in a tumult. Like us all, there were many things that he did not know—there were many things that he did not even know there were to know…. Some of these he was beginning to learn. It had shaken him—it was shaking him—to his soul.

He did not see The Woman again that day…. Her room was across the corridor from his. He heard her voice, directing the steward to bring to her her dinner….

It was dark that night—dark as night seldom gets in the northern latitudes, in June. The lights of the deck looked like vigorous glowworms. The stars seemed very far away. Far below, as he paced, he could see dimly a great blackness that was the sea, and against it the white of the waves as they broke sullenly against the huge hull…. Later it became yet more black. The stars vanished…. The ship seemed a world of its own, hurling through an eternity of utter, deadly space. A wind sprang up, a wind from the East, wet and vicious, a wind that spat upon one, that chilled one, that slapped one with clammy fingers.

Schuyler paced the deck. Coming out of the dim half light of the promenade into the corner of the rail, by the bow, he thought he saw her. He was not sure at first…. Then, though his eyes pierced no more clearly, he was sure…. He went closer. She stood there, white hands clasping the bare rail, lithe, sinewy, lazy body, tilted a bit backward as though in the grasp of the spitting wind. Her throat was bare to it, and her breast. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were deep lidded. Her head was poised like a tiger lily upon its stalk…. He stood there, enveloped in the blackness…. For a long time she stood motionless. Then she stretched her white arms above her head, stretched the long muscles of her body, as a panther stretches. She was very, very beautiful…. He stood watching…. The ship lurched. It reeled against a huge wave, shivering it into roaring spume. The wet fingers of the wind had wrapped her garments about her, every fold tight against her rounded body. She stood, arms above her head, lips parted, silhouetted against the foam…. The ship reeled again, and there came darkness utter…. When again there was light so that one might see, Schuyler stood alone.

Six bells had struck ere he went to his room. Then, scourged of body, scourged of soul, wracked, harassed, torn, he sought his berth. But he did not sleep. He thought of Parmalee, the boy who was a man. He thought of The Woman. He thought of himself. He thought of the wife that he loved. He thought of the child that he loved—the child that had come to him through that wife. He thought of all these things, and of many more; and he did not understand; he did not know. For God has shown even the wisest of us but little of this world in which we live.

[Illustration]