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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d29e734 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67164 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67164) diff --git a/old/67164-0.txt b/old/67164-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 851e9f0..0000000 --- a/old/67164-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4087 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Crime of Henry Vane, by J. S. of -Dale - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Crime of Henry Vane - A Study with a Moral - -Author: J. S. of Dale - -Release Date: January 14, 2022 [eBook #67164] - -Language: English - -Produced by: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by University of California - libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRIME OF HENRY VANE *** - - - THE CRIME OF - - HENRY VANE - - A STUDY WITH A MORAL - - BY J. S. OF DALE - - _Author of "Guerndale"_ - - NEW YORK - CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS - 1884 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1884, - - BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. - - Press of J. J. Little & Co., - - Nos. 10 to 20 Astor Place, New York. - - - - - THE - CRIME OF HENRY VANE. - - -"----Make a fool of yourself, like Vane." - -"I am not so sure that is fair to Vane," said John; "no one can go -through what he did, and keep perfectly sound." - -"I'll leave it to the crowd," said the Major; "what say you, boys?" - -All were unanimous. There was no excuse for a crime like Vane's. -Evidently they all knew Vane. He was damned without one dissenting -voice. - -"Who was Vane?" said I, "and what did he do? Which commandment did he -break? He must have made merry with them all--or, rather, have kept -them all to get such a judgment in this club." - -A babel of voices arose. All these men were intimate friends; and they -were sitting in one of the small smoking-rooms of the Columbian Club -in New York. John had just engaged himself to be married, and we had -given him a dinner; or, as Pel Schuyler put it, we were "recording his -mortgage." Schuyler was a real-estate broker. - -"Now, look here," said John, "how many of you fellows know Vane -personally?" - -No one, apparently. There was a moment's silence. Then the Major spoke -up. "Bah!" said he, "I have heard the story these ten years." "So -have I!" chimed in several others. "My brother knew Vane in Paris," -said Pel. "I had it from Mrs. Malgam herself," simpered Daisy Blake, -fatuously. - -"Well, at least, I know nothing of it," I said; "tell it for my -benefit, John." - -"Yes, yes," cried they, "let's hear the correct and only version -according to John." - -It was that critical moment in a dinner, when the fireworks of -champagne have sputtered out, and the burgundy invites to somnolence. -All had lit their cigars, and felt more like listening than talking. -John did not smoke. - -"I will," said he. "At that time, I was his best--I may say, his only -friend." - -"And I say, still," said the Major, "he acted like a fool and -criminally. There can be no excuse for such conduct." - -John shrugged his shoulders and began. Of course, I do not mean that -he told the whole story just as I have written it. He related the -bare facts, with little comment and without conversations. Whether -you condemned the man or excused him, John thought, his story might -be understood, even if his folly were not forgiven. The crowd at the -club did neither; and, perhaps, their judgment is the judgment of the -world; and the world is probably right. But we may learn from folly; it -is sometimes more suggestive than common sense. There is the ordinary -success and there is the exceptional failure; that is pleasanter, but -this is more instructive. Extreme cases fix the law. - -The world is probably right; and, to those of us who are healthily -adapted to our environment, the world is enough. Blessed are they who -are fitted, for they shall survive. The world is enough; but the poet -sang, love is enough. Shall we say, love is surplusage? The world is -always right; and how virtuously the healthy world reproves what is -morbid! How all the world unites in condemning him who is not fully -content with itself! For such an one it cannot even spare its pity. -There is a kind of personal animus in its contempt. - -Let us hasten to join our little voices to swell the universal song. -So John told the story--plainly and coldly, the more adversely for -the lingering doubt; so we tell the story, and the doubt lessens as -we state the facts, and quite vanishes as we reach the end. It is the -story of a common crime, and the criminal is no friend of ours, as he -was of John's. Moreover, Schuyler called the criminal a fool. - - - - -I. - - -IN April, 1873, Henry Vane was sitting on the _perron_ of a small -summer house in Brittany, poking the pebbles in the driveway with his -cane. He had been there for half an hour, and there was nothing in his -appearance and attitude to indicate that he would not be there for half -an hour more. There was one red pebble, in particular, which he had an -especial desire to prod out from among the others, which were gray. -But it was round and slippery, and slid about the ferruled end of his -cane. After poking it some time, he desisted and held the cane in his -hands in front of his knees, which, as the next step of the porch was -not much lower, were as high as his chin. "C'en est fait de moi," he -muttered. - -Henry Vane, though a New Yorker, had been brought up in France, and in -the French language his thoughts came most readily. He had just seen, -for the last time, an old friend of his--a girl, whom he had known in -infancy, in childhood, in maidenhood; and whom it seemed incredible, -impossible, intolerable, that he should know no more. It was upon the -piazza of her uncle's house that he was sitting; and she was to leave -the next day for Switzerland. - -He was of age that day, and was "his own man now." "And hers," he -thought, bitterly. She did not love him, however; and, at his request, -had just told him so. - -"Décidément, c'en est fait de moi," he muttered again, and gave the -pebble a vicious dig, which sent it flying into an acacia bush that -stood in a green tub by the side of the driveway. - -He was twenty-one that day, and had come into his fortune. His fortune -was not much--four thousand a year, left him by his grandmother and -invested in government bonds. Still, twenty thousand francs made him -distinctly a _rentier_; and twenty thousand francs seemed a good deal, -shared with the girl he loved. But it seemed very little for him alone; -genteel poverty in fact. He certainly could neither yacht nor race. -Travelling--except _en étudiant_--was equally out of the question. - -Vane was a flippant young fellow, with a French education; fond of the -world, of which, as he then thought, he knew much. Yet the _Figaro_ and -the Bois de Boulogne and the _Palais-Royal_, or even the _Français_, -did not seem to satisfy him, that day. And all for a little "Mees -Anglaise!" How his friends would laugh at him! He was very young--they -would say; very young for a _grande passion_. And then they would laugh -again. But Vane felt sure that he should never get over it. - -What the deuce did fellows do in his position? He felt a wild desire -for adventure and excitement; but excitement and adventure were -expensive; unless there happened to be a war, and you went officially. -But he had not many illusions of romance in war. He knew men who had -been at Woerth and Gravelotte. Then there was travel. But this, also, -was expensive. Old Prunier, the Professor, had made an expedition -through Soudan the year before, and it had cost him eight hundred -thousand francs. Moreover, you had to be up on rocks and beetles and -things, to make your trip of any use to the world. And Vane had not yet -given up all idea of being of use in the world. Besides, even Prunier's -expedition had not ended in much, except a row with the Portuguese -missionaries on the subject of the slave trade. These Christian slavers -had met Prunier's remonstrances with the plausible argument that it was -better for the negroes to be slaves in a Christian country, and save -their souls, than free on earth and damned when they died. Prunier had -consequently reported a crying need for a better article of missionary -in Central Africa. But Vane could not go as a missionary. He felt that -his confidence in Providence, at that moment, was not hardy enough to -bear transplanting into the native South African mind, through the -medium of a Turanian dialect. - -He might seek the land of his nativity, and make his four thousand a -year, eight thousand. His father's business, for the moment, lay in -Bellefontaine. He did not in the least know where Bellefontaine was, -but the name had a civilized sound. And she was going to Switzerland. - -Vane must have clenched his hands at this point; for he felt a decided -pricking in his left forefinger. And he observed several thorns on the -stem of the rose she had given him. For she had given him a rose. That -much favor had been shown him. He got into his mother's little phaeton -and drove home--with his rose. So far, his investments in life had not -been successful. The account with fortune might read somewhat like -this--Debtor, an English girl: to ten years' love and an indefinite -amount of devotion and sentiment. Creditor, by the English girl: one -rose (with thorns). That is, if he had put the Dr. and Cr. sides right. -He never could remember which was which. At all events, the returns -on his investment were not large. And he, with his uncertainty about -debtor and creditor, to think of competing with the practical Yankee -of Bellefontaine! No; he would leave his four thousand a year where -it was--a somewhat insignificant part of the national debt. Meantime, -what would become of him? What should he do? He felt an idle outsider's -curiosity to know what the deuce he _would_ do. - -Of one thing he felt certain, his orbit in life would be highly -eccentric. He had no _raison d'être_; and it is difficult to predict -the direction taken by a body without _raison d'être_. The curve -of such a comet has no equation. He could no longer view life with -gravity; and it is quite impossible to calculate the orbit of a body -without gravity. He might bring up anywhere from Orion to the Great -Bear. Only one thing was certain--he could not, for the present, bring -up in Switzerland; and yet, oddly enough, that seemed to be the only -part of any possible terrestrial orbit that had an attraction. But -attraction decreases as the square of the distance. Assuming, for -the sake of argument, that he was now two miles from her, and loved -her with his whole heart; if he were twelve thousand miles away, he -would love her only one divided by the square of six thousand--only -one thirty-six-millionth part as much. In other words, he would have -thirty-five million nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred -and ninety-nine thirty-six millionths of his heart left--left to bestow -upon the dusky beauties of the Pacific. Damn the dusky beauties of the -Pacific. He would see his sister Mary. After all, she was dearer to him -than the dusky beauties of the Pacific could possibly be. - -When the boy arrived home, he drove to the stable, and alighting, -threw the reins to a groom. He was perfectly sure that his life was -broken; but a groom is a necessary adjunct of any life at all. He -rolled a cigarette and strolled toward the house, still holding the -rose, by the stem, between the first and second fingers of his left -hand. Momentarily his thoughts had wandered from the English girl; he -was still entirely busied in constructing a proper _dénouement_ for -himself. The romance of his life, he felt, was gone; but he desired -that his career should be consistent with his tragic part in life. She -had left him enough self-esteem for that. - -So he entered the house. - - - - -II. - - -THE next few weeks seemed long enough to Vane; but, fortunately, we may -make them short. They must be told; they were part of his life; how -large a part, no one--possibly not even himself--ever knew. - -When Vane entered the main door, which François, the old butler, did -not open for him as usual, he saw nothing of his mother. One or two -of her shawls were lying, as if hastily thrown off, on the carved oak -chair in the hall. The day was cool, and the embers of the morning -fire were still red in the chimneyplace. The cigarette did not satisfy -him; so he pulled out a cigar, and looking for a lighter, noticed a -yellow envelope near him, back downward on the floor; close by it was -a thin sheet of paper. Taking this, he was about to twist it up, when -he saw that it was a telegram. He opened it and read his name, and the -message, "_Mary is dead. Tell your mother for us. Pray, come directly. -Gresham._" - -When the servants came in, they found him standing by the fireplace. -"Yes," they said to him, "Madame had left for Dieppe that morning. She -said nothing, but that Mr. Henry should follow her to England. François -had accompanied her. Mr. Henry would have the carriage immediately. But -surely Mr. Henry would dine before departing." - -No; he would go directly. Thomas must pack his portmanteau. "And, -Thomas, lay out a black suit--all in black, you understand?" He would -take a glass of wine and a biscuit. "And, Thomas, all letters for any -one were to be forwarded to him at Sir Thomas Gresham's, The Eyotts, -Rushey, Lincolnshire. Stop; he would write the address on a card." So -he caught the evening mail from Rennes, and the night tidal steamer -from Dieppe. And the gray English fog at sunrise the next morning found -him off Newhaven, still pacing the deck. - -Into the cloud of London at nine; out at ten, and flying through Essex -cornfields and Cambridgeshire fens. There had been heavy rains the -night before, and the country was soggy and saturated, with white -gleams of water over the land. The hay was swashing in the fields like -seaweed. Then the great church of Ely broke the horizon, and he changed -the train, finding an hour to wait. The little town was deserted; the -great towers seemed to weigh it down, to compel a solemn stillness. He -passed his time in the cathedral. At the end of the nave, just in front -of the eastern windows, is a beautiful reredos, a marvellous assemblage -of angels, saints and pinnacles. There is a central figure of Christ -among the apostles which had a strange attraction for him. He must have -been quite rapt in this; for the din of the noon-day bells reminded him -that his train left at twelve-fourteen. - -At Rushey Station the carriage met him from the Eyotts, with Sir -Henry's footmen in mourning. The Greshams were all very fond of Mary. -He saw his mother as soon as he got to the house; but nothing was said -between them for a long time. "Mary is to be buried here," she began, -finally. "I think it better; better than any place out of America." -Then, after a pause: "I have not dared to telegraph your father. I -could not bear to have him know, all alone. He has not been well -lately, I know; and is anxious about his business. I wrote him that -Mary was ill, and begged him to come to France." - -The Greshams were very kind, and all was done that could be done. Clara -Gresham seemed overcome with grief; she had loved Mary so dearly, and -her visit was to have been such a happy one. She was a quiet, rather -plain girl, but Vane found he could talk more easily with her than -with any one else. His mother and he said very little when they were -together. - -One morning, at the breakfast table, Vane got a letter from America. -Some presentiment made him conceal it from his mother, and not open -it until he was alone. It was written in a tremulous hand, unlike -his father's, and told him they had lost everything. His father's -property, though large, was all involved in railways; and some panic -had intervened at a critical moment and all had been swept away. "My -poor boy," the letter went on, "even your own little fortune is gone. -Will you forgive me? You can bear it, I know, for you are young, and -can make your own way; and your mother has loved me long enough to live -with me these few last years in poverty; but when I think of Mary's -future, so different from what I had hoped, it breaks my heart. You -must give up the lease of Monrepos and come to America directly." - -His mother divined bad news, immediately, and followed him, when he -left the room; but she seemed almost happy to hear it was only their -fortune they had lost, and not her husband. Her one idea was to -get back to him in America; but, to do that they must first return -to France. Their departure from the Greshams was hasty, and in the -afternoon they were on their way to Brittany. His mother seemed very -much broken; and he even feared for her mind at times. It was necessary -to interrupt the journey at London and Dover; and it was with a feeling -of relief that he found himself finally within the gates of home. - -But Vane's life was to begin with a crushing succession of sorrows. -Mrs. Vane was impatient and nervous; and went hastily into the house -while he turned to give some directions about the luggage. As he -stood talking to the coachman, he heard a faint cry in the hall. He -went quickly in, and found his mother fainting, another fatal yellow -envelope beside her. It was a telegram from one of his father's friends -in New York, announcing his sudden death in that city. - -It was with great difficulty that Mrs. Vane was brought back to -consciousness at all; and when she revived, she was delirious. Vane -knew nothing whatever about illness; but he carried her up-stairs -himself and then drove to Rennes for another doctor, leaving the local -practitioners in charge. It seemed so strange to be all alone, to have -charge of the family affairs, to have no one to consult with or rely -upon. But Mary, too, was dead. - -So he drove into Rennes and brought a respectable old doctor, who -talked gracefully about nothings, and looked at him curiously and not -unkindly over his spectacles. He heard in a few words the story of his -mother's illness, but seemed more interested in Vane himself. "Ce beau -jeune homme," he said, tapping him playfully on the arm; "il ne faut -pas gâter tout ça!" The young man somewhat impatiently shook him off -and assured him that he was well. Arriving at the château, Dr. Kérouec -went at once to the sick-room, but stayed there barely five minutes. - -Yes, one could save her life; he had seen that directly. But, for the -rest, he must get her at once to some place of security where she might -have treatment--it was her only chance. But Vane said No to this; not -until they were sure. - -The next day she had recovered her strength, but was violently insane. -They lived in the château a month and there was no change. Then the -servants talked of going, and letters came from America telling Vane -how complete his father's ruin had been. He had been buried by his -friends in New York, as Vane had directed by telegraph. Vane could no -longer keep the château or even pay the household expenses. He must go -to America to see what he could save of his father's estate. - -At the end of the month several physicians, most skilled in mental -disorders, had a consultation on his mother's case. The decision was -unanimous--she was incurable. Could she live? Yes, with proper care, -for years. Dr. Kérouec had a personal friend who made a specialty of -these cases and took charge of only two or three patients at a time. -Was this her only chance of getting well? Yes: if no chance could be -called a chance. It was not an ordinary _maison de santé_, and here she -would have the best of treatment, but it was expensive--fifteen hundred -francs a month. Could she bear the journey to America? Never. Vane -thanked the doctors and dismissed them all, except Dr. Kérouec. - -That night, for many hours, the young man paced the courtyard under his -mother's window. At ten in the morning he asked to see the doctor and -found him breakfasting. - -"I have decided," he said briefly. Dr. Kérouec extended his hand: "Ce -brave jeune homme!" The next evening his mother was safely installed -in the pretty little house near Rennes, where already Dr. Kérouec and -his friend had privately made preparations. "And, my boy," said Dr. -Kérouec (who was rich and knew all the circumstances by this time), -"it is customary to pay in advance only when my friend does not know -_ses gens_. I have told him that you will pay at the end of the year." -Vane's voice faltered as he thanked the doctor, but he produced a bank -note for five thousand francs and insisted upon leaving it then. - -That night Dr. Kérouec saw Vane safely on board the St. Malo packet. -"I will care for her, my son," he said, with a parting pressure of the -hand. "Ce brave jeune homme," he muttered, as he walked ashore and up -the little Norman street, mopping his bald head (for it was a hot June -evening) with a large red silk handkerchief. - - - - -III. - - -VANE had six hundred francs left; and, taking the Holyhead mail, the -next evening he was on board the City of Richmond at Queenstown as -a steerage passenger. He had been troubled with no further thoughts -of adventure in the Soudan; and was quite indifferent as to his -own _dénouement_. He spent a great deal of the time at sea walking -on the deck; as a steerage passenger he was allowed to walk aft as -far as the foremast. The other steerage passengers looked upon him -as an intellectual young gentleman; probably a scholar in reduced -circumstances. - -Eighteen thousand francs a year, Vane was thinking; this, at least, he -must have, for his mother could not be sent elsewhere. Gold was then -at a premium, and this sum meant four thousand a year in America. Just -the insignificant fortune he had lost; but could his labor be worth -so much? This problem had filled his mind, and kept his temper sane. -One who has to earn his bread has little time to sigh for things less -possible of attainment. The natural animal motive atones for any want -of others; no one is a pessimist who has to work for his living. The -young man smiled a little at the thought that he, too, was going to -America to seek his fortune--not to improve his future, but to amend -what remained of the past. This one obvious, clear duty was before him -then. Afterwards, he might see what the world had left for him. - -One day about sunset he was sitting on the deck, reading a favorite -book of his--an old Florentine edition of Petrarca. As he turned the -leaves, a broken rose fell from them. It was a book which they--the -English girl and he--had often read together; and, having no Bible -(for, like all Frenchmen and many young men, he was rather a skeptic -in matters of religion), he had thrown her rose hastily between the -leaves. He was surprised a little, now, at his own want of sentiment. -But those times already seemed so far off! He looked at the flower -a moment; then picked it up, and dropped it in the sea. The leaves -scattered as it fell, and were soon lost in the broad wake of the -steamer. - -Vane landed in New York among five hundred other steerage passengers. -Of course the papers did not take the trouble to report the coming -of so insignificant a person; nor did he call upon any of his social -acquaintances. His first visit was to his father's grave; then he went -to see, at their down-town offices, such of his father's business -friends and correspondents as he knew by name. He had written Mr. -Peyton--the one from whom the news had come--to suspend all decisive -steps until he came. Mr. Peyton--as indeed were all who had known his -father--was very kind; and told him the first thing to do was to get -appointed administrator of his father's estate. This being done, he -called a meeting of his father's creditors. Mr. Peyton had advised him -to offer a settlement of sixty cents on the dollar; but he did not -accept this suggestion. He told the creditors of Mr. Peyton's advice, -and added that he could probably pay at least seventy cents. But, he -continued, his desire was to pay in full. His only hope of so doing was -to be allowed to hold his father's investments for a time, manage them -judiciously, and avoid forced sales. Would they give him three years? - -They were few in number, all capitalists, and co-operators with his -father; and they were pleased with something in the young man's manner. -All except one could easily spare the money; and to him Vane, with -the consent of the other creditors, gave his dividend of seventy per -cent., and received his acquittances in full. And that night the other -creditors, at a directors' dinner, agreed that, while they had done a -very foolish thing, they were anxious to see what young Vane would make -of it. - -Young Vane took two small rooms in the oldest house of a down-town -street, for which he paid two dollars a week. And that autumn, Vane, -who a few months before had barely admitted that the name Bellefontaine -had a civilized sound, might have been seen riding on the cow-catcher -of a locomotive in Northern Wisconsin, and estimating the probable -earnings from freight when the forests about him were cut. When he -got his father's affairs into such shape that they could be managed -from New York, he procured a clerkship in a banking-house in that -city at six hundred dollars salary. And then for a year, his life was -monotonous routine without a day's rest. He rose at seven, prepared his -own breakfast of bread and fruit, and was at the bank before nine. He -lunched on a sandwich; left the bank at five, and walked to the Park -and back. At seven he dined on a steak and a pint of ale. And such -of his evenings as were not occupied with the care of his father's -estate, this practical young man of business gave, not to newspapers -and stock reports, but to mediæval history and Italian poetry. It -was his safety valve. He sometimes thought of writing a book on the -social and political history of the Florentine republic. He steadily -refused all invitations of his capitalist friends to dinner or other -entertainments. He could now live with two suits of clothes, and, to -accept their invitations, he would need three; moreover, he secretly -feared that he could not bear his present mode of life if he had even -a glimpse of any other. Only while alone could he forget that he was -alone in the world. John, who was in the same banking-house, was the -only man he knew; and many an evening John left a dinner, or was late -at a party, that he might sit for an hour in the little back room in -Washington Place. - -At the end of the first year Vane took a week's vacation, walking in -the Catskills. Every week he had a letter from Rennes; and frequently -one from Dr. Kérouec, telling him of no change in his mother's -condition. When he returned from his vacation, he was called into the -counting-room of the senior partner, and given a check for four hundred -dollars in addition to his first year's salary of six hundred; and, -moreover, was promoted to a position of three thousand a year salary. -That first year, Vane had spent three hundred and eighty dollars in -board and lodging, and eighty more in pocket money. He had bought no -clothing, having brought all he needed from France. His travelling -expenses had been large, but these he had charged to the account of his -father's estate. This left him five hundred and forty dollars to the -good. - -Vane then went to Mr. Peyton and borrowed three thousand dollars on -his own security. This three thousand he sent to Dr. Kérouec; and five -hundred dollars of his earnings he invested in a life-assurance policy -payable to Dr. Kérouec as trustee for his mother. He thus had forty -dollars in his pocket at the beginning of his second year. - -By this time some of his father's railways were beginning to get out of -shallow water. Vane watched them carefully; and by judicious management -and successful sales, he was able, on the first of August, eighteen -hundred and seventy-six, the end of the three years allowed him, to -pay his father's creditors their claims in full--four hundred and -forty-seven thousand dollars, with interest for three years at six per -cent. And over and above this, after paying Mr. Peyton, he had sixteen -thousand dollars, which he might call his own. Early in August he -sailed for Brittany, and spent a week with Dr. Kérouec at Rennes. - -His mother's hair was now white; she was quiet, but still hopelessly -insane, nor did she even recognize him. - -Vane was back again on the first of September. When he presented -himself at the bank, he was offered a responsible position, and a -salary of six thousand dollars a year, with a hint of partnership in -the near future. He now removed to lodgings in Eighteenth Street; and -on going home that night, for the first time in two years he burst into -a fit of crying. This turn of hysterics was the prelude to a low fever, -of which he lay five weeks ill. - - - - -IV. - - -JOHN HAVILAND was with him a great deal of this time, and, on his -recovery, took him severely to task for the life he had been leading. -For three years he had been a mere machine--a blind, passionless, -purposeful energy. A man, and a young man, could not live like that. -What pleasure had he taken in all that time? And a young man, unless -he has attained happiness, cannot live entirely without pleasure, even -if it be true that he should not seek for it. And Haviland knew enough -of Vane's life to feel assured that there had not hitherto been much -happiness. Moreover, Vane was a man of the world, and had been out of -it for three years. It was unnatural. He should see something of the -people of his own country. His mother was well; and would probably be -the same for years. And he had been nearly three years in mourning. -"Now," John concluded, "I wish you to come to a dinner at our house on -Friday." - -Vane smiled, and looked at his threadbare black suit--one of the -original black suits--which had seen much service since he brought it -over from France. But he pleasantly accepted John's invitation, and -forthwith visited his tailor. That afternoon, in the park, as he turned -to come home from his walk, and saw the walls and spires of his own -city harshly outlined before the sunset, he realized for the first time -that he was a stranger in a strange land. For the first time, as he -walked down Fifth Avenue, between the level, high wall of house fronts, -with their regular squares of lighted windows, he caught himself -wondering what was behind these windows. Now and then he saw a feminine -silhouette on the white window-shades; in some houses, even, he could -see into a lower room; there were usually pictures on the walls and -often books, or bindings, on the shelves; there was frequently an old -gentleman by the fireside, and always a young girl or two. It was -piquant to catch these glimpses of the domestic hearth from the street; -he remembered how impossible such visions were in the Faubourg, among -the old hotels between court and garden. - -As he thought of the newly discovered country he was soon to enter, -so strange to him, he felt that he, also, was strange to himself. -He tried to bring back his old nature of the boulevards, Longchamp -and Trouville; but it seemed to him childish and obsolete; showy and -senseless, like a pasteboard suit of stage armor. He did not regret -it. He was a man and an American; men were earnest, life in America -was earnest. He knew little of his own city; but he had read the -current novels; and he thought that he had seen enough to know that -the every-day life in America was tangible, material, and the life -of society what it should be, a gay leisure, a surface of pleasure -and rest. Now, in Paris it was the every-day life that was trivial; -the theatres were filled with vaudevilles; but the tragedies were -everywhere, off the stage. It was well, the young man felt, that he was -an American; his life had begun too sternly for a more artificial state -of society; he lacked more than other people, and he demanded more from -the world. - -So the Friday night in question found him arrayed in the normal evening -costume of modern times. It wore somewhat awkwardly and strangely at -first; and one or two little minutiæ of dress he did not know at all; -as, whether gentlemen in America would wear gold studs, and how they -tied their cravats. A waiter met him in the hall holding a plate, on -which were several little envelopes, one of which bore his name. I -suppose, thought he, in a country where there is no precedence, but -much formality, this indicates whom we are to take in to dinner. He -opened his envelope and found within a card, and written in a feminine -hand _Miss Baby Thomas_. What an intolerable name! - -Coming above into the reception room, his first impressions were -decidedly favorable. John's mother was a comely woman of that -comfortable domestic sort known as motherly; she raised one's opinion -of human nature even by the way in which she sat down. The prevailing -tone seemed refined, Vane thought. No more bad taste was visible than -is unavoidable in a country where the head of a family dies in a -finer house than the one he was born in. The women were charming in -dress, and face and figure; but their voices were disagreeable, and -they seemed to him a little brusque. In fact, the men, though rather -awkward, seemed to have more social importance, if not better breeding. - -So far had he progressed in his studies, when a voice over his shoulder -said, "Miss Thomas--Mr. Vane." Inferring that he was being presented, -he turned quickly about, bowing as he did so. The young lady did not -wait for him to begin, but at once rattled off a number of questions -about himself and his foreign life. As the most of these she answered -herself with an "I suppose," or a "but of course," Vane had leisure -to observe her while she talked. She was pretty; admirably, sweetly -pretty; there was no doubt of that; as pretty as masses of dead-black -hair and eyes of intense gentian blue could make her. She had a lovely -neck and hands; and a smile which seemed placed there with a divine -foreknowledge of kisses. It was at once infantine, arch and gentle; -and then there was a pretty little toss of the head and a shrug of -the white, young shoulders. Vane looked at her curiously, a little -condescendingly perhaps, as the first specimen of the natives he had -seen. She did not seem to mind his looking at her. If a French girl -had so calmly borne his glance, there would have been a little of the -coquette in hers. But, after all, thought Vane,--this was charming; -more ideal, more intelligent, sweeter than Paris--but it was not unlike -Paris. The dress was certainly Parisian. She was better dressed than -young ladies are in Paris. Her people must be very rich. Yet, he was -disappointed. She was not American enough. She would have been quite in -his mood of five years gone by. She was not like English girls; and he -had hoped American girls were like them. - -Vane had just finished this process of mentally ticketing her off, when -she grew silent. The first quick rush of her conversation was gone. -She seemed to be getting her breath and waiting for him. He did not -quite know how to begin. This young lady reminded him of a glass of -champagne. When you first pour it out, there is a froth and sparkle; -then a stillness comes; if you wish a fresh volume of sparkles, you -must drop something into it. A piece of sugar is best. Vane's French -breeding stood him in good stead: he began with a compliment. - -After the dinner, the nine ladies disappeared from the room; and the -nine men grouped themselves at one end of the table and smoked cigars -over the sweetmeats. When the room was well filled with tobacco-smoke, -they threw open the doors, and returned to the drawing-room. The ladies -were grouped about, picturesquely, drinking tea; and the air was -delicate with their presence. As the body of men moved in, it seemed a -little like an incursion of the Huns into Italy. - -The party kept together but a few moments more. Most of the men were -sleepy; little was said by the women. It was as if there were nothing -to talk about, or as if the men had eaten too much; but they had eaten -very little. Vane was relieved when they got out of doors. - -John walked back to his lodgings with him. The two young men found no -lack of things to talk about. Haviland took still another cigar. "What -did you think of the dinner?" said he finally. "I mean, the people?" - -"I thought it was very pleasant," said Vane, eluding the second form of -the question. But Haviland recurred to it. - -"I mean the people. Miss Thomas, for instance." - -"Miss Thomas, for instance," said the stranger. "I think," he -continued, recalling to mind his mental label, "she is sweet-tempered, -innocent, ambitious, and shallow." Vane had formerly prided himself on -some acquaintance with women of the world. - -John laughed. "Perhaps you are right," he said. "But she will amuse -you, and wake you up." It seemed as if he were remembering something; -then he laughed again. "You do not do her justice yet. She is one of -the most entertaining and, in an innocent little way, exciting girls I -know. I put her next you for that purpose." - -"Who is her father?" - -"Oh, a stockbroker down-town. No one in particular. The family would -not interest you." - -"None of the mammas were here to-night?" - -"Dear me, no," answered John. "Why do you ask?" - -"I should like to see some of them; that is all." - - - - -V. - - -AT this time Vane was not in the habit of thinking about women. He had -found life particularly serious, and girls were not serious. Somewhat -fatuously, perhaps, he fancied no woman under thirty could either -understand him, or arouse his own interest. And most of the women over -thirty were married. He understood that in America any intimacy with -married women was out of the question; married women were quite given -up to domestic duties, and kept out of society. - -But Vane had certain theories of his own as to social observances, -and he thought it his duty, after taking Miss Thomas in to dinner, -to call upon her. He performed this duty (which afterwards became a -pleasure) upon the following afternoon. He found her in a somewhat -dingy house on East Fifteenth Street, but, though the setting was dull -and commonplace, herself was even prettier than he remembered her, and -simply and charmingly dressed. Vane was no amateur of bric-à-brac; he -had no auctioneer's eye, and, if a room was in perfect taste, did not -commonly notice it at all; but glaring faults would force themselves -upon him, and he could not help observing that, with the exception of -the daughter's dress, the household showed no evidence of knowledge of -what is good in literature, art, or taste. - -Except Miss Thomas. Always except Miss Thomas herself. She received -him with much grace of manner, but seemed to have very little to say. -Vane found that he had to talk largely against time; and this rather -disappointed him at first. At first, but afterwards he decided that -he liked this still mood best. There was no dimple and sparkle, but -it was quiet and companionable. She is not like "a young lady," Vane -thought; still less like a French young lady. She is neither _ingénue_ -nor _formée_; she is young, bright, a good fellow. One might play Paul -to her Francesca without a _dénouement_. How could he have thought her -ill-trained? Though she had evidently thought little, read less, and -been taught nothing at all, she had a sweet natural elegance of her -own. Vane found time to observe all this between his sentences. They -were not very well connected. - -Was he going to Mrs. Roster's ball? she had asked.--No, he thought not. -He did not know her.--He had better go. Every one would be there. - -"Then I fear I am no one," said Vane. "I am not even invited." He was -sorry to fancy that her interest in him flagged a little after this. -She had met him at a good house, but, after all, he might be a mere -protégé of John Haviland's. Mr. Haviland was always picking up queer -people. A moment after this Vane took his leave. - -Why should he not go to Mrs. Roster's? he said to himself. He could -not always be brooding on the addled eggs of the past. After all, the -world was all that was left him, and in the world the dance still went -on merrily, and maidens' eyes were bright; leaves still were green, and -the foam of the sea as white as ever, and wine still sparkled in the -glass. He said this to himself with a somewhat sceptical grin, for, -like most Frenchmen with whom he had lived, he took little pleasure in -drinking. A Frenchman drinks to go to the devil: he rarely goes to the -devil because he drinks. Yet he was, or at all events he had been, fond -of society. He had liked light and gay faces, and bright conversation, -and heartlessness--if there must be heartlessness--masked under suave -manners and intellectual sympathy. Out of society the heartlessness -was just as real, he had used to think, only ruder; there is at least -as much snobbishness, and it is more offensively vulgar. He could not -stay always out from all society. He must find something to pull him -back into the world; he must get some grip of life. Hitherto his only -foothold had been his clear necessity of making eighteen thousand -francs a year to send to his mother. - -He could probably have persuaded himself with much less reasoning if -he had not had a secret inclination to go; but, as it was, he reasoned -himself into it, and thought that he thought it was a bore. So he went -to Mrs. Roster's ball. Of course he admired the beauty of American -women; the beauty of American women is like the Hudson River; one -is bound to prefer it to the Rhine. He thought the party was very -pretty and the dancing beautifully done, and, moreover, he made the -acquaintance of several young ladies of quite a different type than -Miss Thomas's. They had plenty of breeding and intelligence, and talked -the latest slang of culture to perfection, and were evidently of the -great world, if they had not quite so much charm as she. Still none of -these, as yet, were essentially American, or even very deeply English, -though they dabbled in it. - -Miss Thomas herself, for some reason unknown to Vane, did not receive -quite so much attention as he had fancied that she would. It was not -her fault, for she was charmingly dressed and never looked prettier. - -As he was ready to leave he met her, for the first time, coming down -the stairs in wraps and wanting her carriage. - -"You have not spoken to me the whole evening," said she softly, as she -took his arm. - -"I was afraid to, mademoiselle," said Vane, half jocosely. - -"Come to-morrow," she whispered seriously. "It is my day for receiving, -and I shall be so glad to see you." Vane bowed his thanks, and the next -moments were occupied in conveying herself and skirts safely into the -coupé. As he was about to shut the door she extended her hand frankly: -"You will come, won't you?" Vane was a little puzzled; he took her hand -awkwardly, and muttered something about being only too delighted. He -had no experience whatever of American women, much less American girls. -Why should she so particularly wish to see him? He called the next -day, expecting to learn, but in that he was doomed to disappointment. -Apparently Miss Thomas, if she had any reason, had forgotten it; -she had very little to say, and the call was quite conventional and -commonplace. "Bah!" he thought, as he walked home. "Here I have wasted -half an afternoon over this girl simply because she asked me. Doubtless -she herself had nothing better to do than waste it over me." And -perhaps he added secretly that his life was something more serious than -hers, and, at all events, he had no mind for light flirtation. - - - - -VI. - - -NEVERTHELESS, some curious chance made him see a good deal of Miss -Thomas. He was very apt to sit next her at dinner, even if he did not -take her in. And whatever she might be, she certainly was not silly. -She said very little, it is true; but it occurred to Vane one day that -what she did say never placed her in a false or foolish position. Nor -had he ever made a remark which she did not fully understand, in its -full bearing and implication. Sometimes she affected--particularly if -its nature was complimentary--to be wholly unconscious of its meaning; -sometimes she would even ask an explanation. But a moment after, she -was very apt to say or do some little thing which showed that she had -understood it perfectly. Vane, who, in his flippant moods, was rather -an adept at conversational fencing, and had flattered himself that very -careful ground was quite unnecessary with Miss Thomas, gradually put -more attention into his guard and more care in his attack. And when he -saw, to continue his own metaphor, that his simple thrusts in quarte -and tierce were easily parried and sometimes returned, he began to -honor his adversary with a more elaborate attack. But, as he one day -acknowledged to himself, though she had rarely touched him, yet he was -not sure that he had ever got fairly under her own guard. Altogether, -the more he saw of Miss Thomas, the more she interested him; and after -the serious struggles of the day, he quite enjoyed his little playful -evening encounters with so charming a feminine adversary. For he began -to admit to himself that she was charming--there was no doubt of that. -And meantime (so he fancied) the intercourse with her happy, simple -nature was having a beneficial influence on his own. - -For the past three years his attitude had been one of stern courage, -of self-renunciation. But, after all, why should even he be always -shut out from the spring? Flowers still bloomed in the world, summer -followed winter, and this pretty little butterfly that fluttered near -him might, after all, bring him healthier thoughts from her own air -than he found in his morbid life. What a sharp inquisitor is one's own -self! What a cross-examiner of hidden motive! And what a still sharper -witness is that self under inquisition! Vane never took his young -friend seriously; and felt a need of excusing himself for trifling, as -he thought. - -John suddenly asked him, one day, what he thought of Miss Thomas now, -and whether he had changed his views at all. "I was very much struck -with your first diagnosis," he said. "At a moment's study, you gave the -popular opinion of her; that she was gay, shallow, good-humored, and -ambitious--and you might have added clever, rather than innocent." - -Vane was a little displeased. - -"I think that I and the world were wrong," said he. "She is not -shallow, but she is humble rather than vain; as for ambition, she is -perhaps too much without it; and I should not be surprised if somewhere -about her pretty little self she had a true woman's heart, which she is -not yet conscious of." - -John laughed. "Look out, old man," said he; "only a poet is allowed to -fall in love with his own creation. Never say I have not given you fair -warning. Ten Eyck was very attentive to her at one time; and the world -believed that she wanted to marry him. But he was appointed _chargé -d'affaires_ at London; and left her without bringing matters to an -issue. Since then, when he has been back in New York once or twice, he -has entirely dropped her." - -"And do you mean to say that she still cares for him after that?" - -"So the world thinks; and the world is apt to be right in such matters." - -"Bah!" said Vane. "No woman could care for a man who had once led her -to believe he loved her, and left her." - -"Humph!" answered John. "That may be true of woman in the abstract; but -I am not sure of its truth in this longitude. It is easier to judge -woman in general than a New York girl in particular." - -"At all events," said Vane, "I give her full leave to try her skill on -me, skilful as you say she is. Indeed, if you think she is fair game -for what you call a flirtation, you have removed my only scruples." - -"Very well, old boy--go in. But Miss Thomas once told another girl that -she could understand any man in two days' acquaintance. Don't go in too -deep." - -"Nonsense!" thought Vane when John had left. "I flatter myself I am -beyond her hurting. It is pleasant enough to have her as a friend. I -wish I could wish to marry her." And he called to his mind Brittany and -that last rose. "But I am sorry if she really can still care for that -man. Ten Eyck was his name? I should be sorry to like her less. How -strange these American women are! Now, in France--Bah!" he broke off, -"it can't be true; and, after all, what do I care if it is?" - -Vane liked her very much, and thought her very much underrated by the -world; and the same afternoon, by way of vindication, he went to her -house and made a long call, _tête-à-tête_. He had fallen into an easy -companionship with her, which made her society a delightful rest and -respite from the earnest stress and strain of his life, of any man's -life. They were beginning to have numerous little confidences as to -people and things; views shared by them only, which gave them little -private topics of conversation, nooks of thought, where they met. Thus -Vane could quite shut out a third party from the conversation, and keep -Miss Thomas to himself. Her cultivation and taste surprised him more -and more as he knew her. This pretty little New York girl, naturally -half-spoiled and petted, brought up in a particularly _bourgeois_ -household, never having been out of it and New York, had yet a range -of mind and appreciation quite equal to anything he could bring her -in books or in conversation. The people about her seemed totally -different--different in views, in taste, in appearance, in manner. Yet -she never seemed discontented at home--a common fault of children in -a country where they improve upon their parents. She moved among them -modestly and lovingly, like a princess unconscious of her royalty. All -this thought Vane, and marvelled. - -He found that even his peculiar tastes were shared. It has been -mentioned that this successful young business man had a secret taste -for Italian poetry. This he had been used to indulge alone; but on his -mentioning it, she spoke with enthusiasm of the sweet old mediæval -_terza rima_. Having little opinion of women's power of purely ideal -enjoyment, he had at first doubted the sincerity of this taste. Still, -he brought around some old verses one day; and soon it became his -habit, instead of reading alone, to pass an evening or two in a week -reading with her. And so during the winter, with double the pleasure he -had ever known before, they went through the familiar pages of Ariosto, -Tasso and Dante. The fifth canto of the Inferno remained, however, her -favorite; and with the light of her eyes upon the text Vane made a much -better translation than Byron or Cary ever dreamed. She was never tired -of hearing the passage beginning "Siede la terra dove nata fui." And -much practice in translation makes perfect. - -Thus, thanks to Miss Thomas and a little sight of the lighter rim of -life, Vane passed a winter which, if not happy, was at least less -bitter than he had known for years. In the natural course of events, -society pronounced him attentive to Miss Thomas; but Vane cared little -for that. His character was not of the mould which cares what the world -says. He did not believe that her life was very happy, either; and he -thought they were both the better for their friendship. The more he saw -of her, the less he doubted that she had at one time cared for some -one, Ten Eyck or another; though, of course, for him she would never -care again. After all, she was his superior; she had kept her sweet -self above her sorrow, he had not. How he had misinterpreted her that -first evening! Now he saw she was a woman, in all the glory of her -womanhood, strong, gentle, and true. - -Vane went back to Brittany in the June of the summer following. One of -his last calls was upon Miss Thomas, and she chided him with not making -it the very last. However, the call lasted three hours. Twenty times -Vane rose to go, and each time was detained by some pretext or another -of Miss Thomas. There is a sweet pleading manner of urging a wish, -even a selfish one, that makes you feel as if you were doing yourself -a favor in gratifying it. Miss Thomas had this manner, which few men, -particularly strong men, can resist. Vane always yielded. He would as -soon have thought of putting a pet canary through the manual of arms -as of resisting it. In this way Vane's visit was prolonged, and when -he went home he admitted to himself that it had been a very charming -one. He thought she was a lovely woman, and wished some nice fellow -would marry her. What a gentle, sunny nature she had! And what a lovely -type of the best American women, so different both from the French -and English, so natural, so pure, and yet so bright and charming. "At -least," thought Vane, "if I ever go back to France to live I shall -have seen some things wholly worthy of admiration in my own country." -He was sorry if she really cared (as she had seemed to) that he had -called upon her two days before his departure. She had been very kind -to him that winter, and it certainly would have been more _empressé_ to -have called upon her last. Vane stopped on his way to Jersey City the -morning of the steamer's sailing, and procured a superb mass of roses. -These he sent to Miss Thomas with his card: "From her sincere friend." -It was the last thing he did in America. - - - - -VII. - - -VANE stayed with old Dr. Kérouec in Rennes, and found the good -physician kinder than ever. He always called Vane "my son" now, and -he had to submit to numerous embraces, a proceeding he did not like, -for in his manners Vane had that clumsiness in expressing anything -emotional, that Gothic phlegm, about which Saxons grow vainglorious, -and for which Celts detest them. - -Every day Vane walked in the garden with his mother--a painful duty, -for she never remembered him. Her dementia was quite harmless now, and -she sometimes spoke to Vane of himself, not knowing him, but never -mentioned his father. Curiously enough her talk was much of Mary, and -of the English girl who had been the object of his boyish affections. -Vane heard casually of her marriage that summer, and was more surprised -than pleased to find how little the news affected him. - -Once in a while, however, he caught himself wondering what Miss Thomas -was doing; and a week after his arrival he received a note from her to -thank him for the flowers he had sent. She also said that they were at -some place in Pennsylvania for the summer, far from the madding crowd, -but she found the place very stupid and the people inane. There was -nothing to do there. The men were all young Philadelphians, she wrote, -and generally uninteresting. Vane was glad to get the note, and of -course never thought of replying. - -At this time Vane was a handsome, erect fellow, with a large aquiline -nose, and heavy eyebrows shading quiet eyes. Most of the people knew -him well as the doctor's protégé. One day the good old doctor came to -him with an air of much mysterious importance. He passed Vane's arm -through his, and led him to his favorite walk up and down the garden. -"My son," he began, tapping him on the shoulder, and beginning in a way -he evidently thought to be diplomatic, "you are growing older, and it -is not good for you to be alone. Listen! it is time you should marry." - -Vane looked up quickly, and then struggled to repress a smile. - -"Listen, my child," continued the doctor, much pleased, "I have to -propose a _parti_ of the most charming--but of the most charming! My -wife's own cousin and two hundred thousand livres of _dot_! What say -you?" - -Vane was touched, and found it hard to answer. - -"My child," the old man went on, "I love you like my own son--my -own son, see you? You are not noble _de naissance--mais, le -cœur--d'ailleurs_, neither are you _rôturier, non plus_. I have spoken -of you to Madame la Comtesse de la Roche-aigue, and Madame la Comtesse -_veut bien_. Her daughter is charming--but a child adorable! You will -let me present you _comme futur_--what say you?" - -Vane bent over and took the hand of his old friend. "My father," he -said, "I would do more for you than for any one living. You have been -more than a father to me. God bless you for it! But this I cannot do. I -shall never marry." Vane spoke seriously and with some tragic effect, -like a Manfred or a Werther. - -The old man sighed deeply. He knew Vane too well to press the matter. -"Ah!" said he, "you say you will never marry. I know better. You have -seen some American--_quelque petite Américaine rusée_. _Hélas!_ and we -might all have been so happy." The doctor said no more on the subject, -but was sad and quiet during the rest of Vane's visit. - -He said nothing afterwards, except on Vane's departure. Then he -pressed his hand: "Ah, consider, my child. A young girl of the most -charming--of the _most_ charming--and two hundred thousand livres of -_dot_!" Vane could only press his hand in return. And the last he saw -of the doctor, he was standing still upon the Dieppe pier, rubbing his -nose with an immense silk pocket-handkerchief. - -This was Vane's fifth trip across the Atlantic; and for the first time, -he felt glad when the vessel's prow turned westward. Brittany, for him, -represented the past; America the future. He was an American, after -all. A day after his arrival he would be immersed in Wall Street--up in -all the mysteries of exchange and rates, the stock-list his breviary -and the ribbon of telegraph paper his oracle. Meanwhile, however, he -dozed on the deck and essayed metrical translations of Boccaccio. He -was reading the tale of the pot of basil one day, and thought for about -half a morning of Miss Thomas. What she had to do with his reading, he -could not see. But she was quite the most interesting figure in his -mental gallery. A curious jumble was this modern state of society. -Bare flowers sprang up in strange parterres; exotics grew outside -of hot-houses, and common whiteweed inside. There ought to be some -method of social transplanting; some way of grafting new blossoms on -an old stock. But all American stock was good; American society was -like a world of rounded pebbles grating on a beach; the buried pebbles -were quite as fine as those on top; only these were more stirred and -polished, so their colors came out best. And yet what common, poor -stuff most of them were, after all! A pleasant trade, that of social -lapidary! And Vane, perhaps for the first time, took note of the -women around him. There was a Philadelphia girl, pretty and voluble; -there was a young lady from Michigan, who had been to "college" in -Massachusetts and finished herself abroad, alone, or in company with a -dear friend from Connecticut. There was a girl from Cleveland, wealthy, -marvellous, indescribable; and a young lady from New Orleans, with -all the fire drawn from her cheeks into her eyes. There was a girl--a -young woman, a young lady--a being feminine, from Boston, weighing and -analyzing all things within her somewhat narrow mental horizon; and -a social entity from New York, also of the feminine variety, but of -orbit predicable and conventional eccentricities, her life a function -of two variables, money and fashion. All these women were fair, and -strange to him; and this, perhaps, was the only day of his life that he -had definitely considered women from a contemporary point of view. His -assured income was now eight thousand a year. Four of this went to his -mother, three he spent; the rest he saved. - -Coming back to New York, he plunged into a mass of accumulated -duties; it was a week before he found time to see anything of John; -and two weeks before he called on Miss Thomas. He found her in a -rather different mood than usual; a little sadder, a shade more -self-conscious. "It is two weeks before you come to see me, and you did -not answer my letter," she said. - -Vane could only bow. "If I had only known you wished me to," he said. - -"Ah, well! And what have you seen abroad?" - -"Nothing of interest to me now." - -"And what are you going to do this winter?" - -"I do not know. Stick to my trade," Vane added laughingly. - -"And shall we not go on with our reading?" - -"I should be only too happy." - -"What a conventional expression of willingness--what an enthusiastic -acceptance!" - -"Conventions are the safest expressions of the truth." - -"What do you mean by 'safest'?" - -"The safest to me." - -She gave a little laugh, in which Vane joined. "I do not understand -you." - -"You mean you are too skilful a fencer to admit it." - -"What do you mean by 'fencing'?" - -"The manner of our conversations." - -"You mean that it is not sincere--that it is badinage? Why do you do -it, then?" - -"I am only too ready to change our ground." - -"I do not know what you mean." - -Vane bowed his disbelief in this remark and rose to go. - -"Ah! do not go yet. I am so lonely to-day, and it is just the hour of -the day when there is nothing to do. I have no work and my poor eyes -are too weak to read. They are not even useful!" - -"Why do you imply they are not ornamental? Why do you say what you do -not mean?" - -"But I do mean it." - -"You know you have lovely eyes." - -"I thought you never made compliments," she said with a little pleased -laugh. - -"You see your weak eyes are strong enough to keep me here." And rising -to go, he extended his hand. - -"Ah! do not go yet." And taking his hand, she almost detained it -gently. "I am so glad to see you once more." - -Vane laughed again. "Have you read De Musset's '_Il faut qu'une porte -soit ouverte ou fermée_'?" - -"No; but I will read it. Why?" - -"Because my calls resemble that one. I am continually opening the door -to go. Now if my call could have the same ending!" he added gallantly. - -She colored. "She has read it," thought Vane. "_Halte-là!_" And this -time, perhaps rather precipitately, he took his leave for good. Miss -Thomas gave another of her little pleased laughs, after he had closed -the door. Vane had been thoroughly amused, and walked in a very -contented frame of mind to John's. Coming into his smoking-room, he -took a cigar and threw himself at full length upon the lounge. He could -afford occasionally to smoke and take life easily now; it was different -with him from the times, three years back, when he used to get his own -breakfast in the little rooms on Washington Place. - -"Well, old man, how goes it?" said John, looking up with a light of -friendship in his gray eyes which Vane's coming always brought to them. - -"Capitally! I have been passing the afternoon with Miss Thomas." - -"And how was she? Fascinating as ever?" - -"_Fascinating_ is not the word I like to use of her. It implies -conscious effort." - -Vane was evidently off on a thesis, and Haviland settled himself on -the sofa with a pipe. "I have seen many women whom the world calls -fascinating, and they never attracted me at all. We look, admire and -pass on. Now, Miss Thomas has all the brightness of a woman of the -world, with the simplicity of a country maiden. If she has any charm, -it is because she is just herself, as Nature made her." Vane spoke with -the air of a knight defending abandoned beauty. - -"By the way (if you have finished your essay on an inamorata), I saw -Ten Eyck to-day. He has come back from London, with a chance of being -ambassador to Madrid, and is a better match than ever." - -"Ten Eyck? Who is Ten Eyck? Oh! I remember. Well, and what of it?" Vane -added, after a pause. - -"Oh! nothing, nothing at all. He is the son of one of our New York -Senators, you know; and has a brilliant future before him." - -"Bah! The most brilliant future a woman can have is a future with a man -who loves her." - -"And where did you pick up that aphorism? Not from your French -education, surely? I believe Miss Thomas loves him." - -"I may not be up in American ideas, John, owing to the French education -you sneer at; but I certainly was brought up to resent a remark like -that, made of a young girl I like." - -"I don't see what there is insulting in saying that a woman--for she -is a woman, as you yourself admit--loves a man. I think it rather -a compliment. American women rarely do, I can assure you. Their -natures are like a New England spring--the sun must do a devilish -deal of wooing before even so much as a green tendril is visible." -And Haviland, who was just then devoted to the young lady of Puritan -descent whom he has since married, fetched a deep sigh. - -Vane began to laugh again. - -"Well, well. In time, I, too, shall become a New Yorker. And by the -way, John, speaking of that--is it customary here to invite a young -lady to go to walk with you?" - -"Why, certainly, if you like. Miss Thomas has gone many a time, I -fancy." - -"I was not thinking of Miss Thomas," said Vane, pettishly. - - - - -VIII. - - -VANE had not intended to go to Mrs. Roster's ball the next night; but -he went, nevertheless. Vane was always a rather cynical spectator at -large parties in New York. Somehow, it was so different from all that -he had hoped; it was so like Paris, with more frivolity and fewer -social gifts. A cynic is commonly a snubbed sentimentalist, who takes -it out in growling. Vane had sought the world because he was lonely; -but it seemed to him more than ever that he was much less lonely when -alone. It is isolation, not loneliness, that saddens a man of sense; -for his sense tells him that it is the world which is likely to be -right, and proves him a solitary fool. - -This evening Vane did devote himself to Miss Thomas; and a charming -conversation they had. "You are quite different from what I thought you -were," she said. "I used to think you were serious and queer." - -"Really," said Vane; "and what do you think me now?" - -"At least, I do not think you serious and queer. Certainly, not -_serious_." - -"But I am." - -"Can that be?" There was a heightened color in her cheek. - -"As you see me. Will you go to walk with me next Sunday afternoon?" - -Miss Thomas looked up suddenly with her soft eyes; then as suddenly -cast them down again. Vane must have seen that she blushed a little. - -"Yes." And then, "if you do not leave Fifth Avenue," she added. - -"After that I shall certainly ask you to go into the Park," he said. - -"You had better not--at least not before the Sunday afternoon--or I -will not go with you at all," laughed Miss Baby, roguishly. - -Vane bent and took her hand for a moment; as it hung among the orange -leaves in the conservatory. Then he bowed and left her without an -apology. She did not draw her hand away; and as Vane looked back at -her from the door she was, this time, blushing violently. Vane himself -walked home in a somewhat agitated frame of mind, and went to sleep; -and when he woke up in the morning, he discovered that he was very much -in love with Baby Thomas. This discovery caused him more surprise than -disapproval; and yet he felt bound to confess himself a good deal of a -fool. - -He thought of it several times during the day, in the intervals of -business, and not without considerable mental invective. However, as he -walked home in the afternoon, he became less out of humor with himself. -She certainly was a very charming girl, and well worth winning. At all -events it was pleasant to be in love with her. He expected to see her -that evening, and the prospect gave him a great deal of happiness, -not without a slight seasoning of excitement, that made quite a novel -enjoyment in his life. Certainly, he reflected, he was very much in -love. It was surprising how it had grown in the night--like Jack and -his bean-stalk. However, he saw no particular reason why he should try -to cut it down. Perhaps he secretly doubted whether he could do so if -he chose; and the doubt was agreeable. - -Miss Thomas was not at the party that evening; and Vane found himself -a little uneasy in consequence. He left early, and went to see John -Haviland. - -"John," said he, "I am in love with Miss Thomas." - -"Many of us have been through that," said John, calmly; "it is not -fatal." - -"But," said Vane, "my constitution may be more delicate. I am not a -hide-bound rhinoceros." - -"Neither," said John, "am I." And he defended the aspersion upon his -epidermis with a quadrupedal sigh. - -"But I want to marry her." - -"That is also a symptom. You need not do it, however." - -"What do you know against her?" - -"Nothing; but Ten Eyck has rather too heavy a prior mortgage." - -"I don't care for Ten Eyck." - -"The question is, whether she does." - -"I know very well that she can't." - -"She would hardly wish you to know the opposite, if the opposite were -true." - -"Bah! I know something about women----" - -"The devil himself can't know a woman who doesn't know herself." - -"Anyhow, it is a free field----" - -"And plenty of favor." - -"She hasn't seen Ten Eyck for years----" - -"The last time was this afternoon." - -"What?" - -"I saw them walking on Fourth Avenue, as I came up-town in a horse-car." - -"Humph!" said Vane, and he dropped the conversation. - -For some weeks he said nothing more to John about Miss Thomas; and -during that time he was trying, with more or less success, to persuade -himself of his own folly. But he found it more easy to bend his -energies to the subjugation of Miss Thomas's heart than of his own. -And John noticed that he left his business rather earlier in the -afternoon than usual, and always took the Fourth Avenue car up-town. -In his evenings he exhausted a large part of the most cynical French -literature in convincing himself that he was a fool. But in spite of -Balzac and Scribe, he found that he looked forward anxiously to the -evenings when he was to meet her; and it was more easy for him to laugh -at his own infatuation--no, interest was the name he gave it--than to -go for a couple of days without seeing its object. - -The first Sunday that he let pass without a visit, he was very nervous -all the evening, and going to bed early made a vain effort to sleep. -What a--qualified--fool he was, and yet how he did love that girl! He -got up and read Heine by way of disillusion, and opened the book at the -quatrain, - - "Wer zum ersten Male liebt - Sei's auch glücklos, ist ein Gott; - Aber wer zum zweiten Male - Glücklos liebt, Der ist ein Narr." - -How good! How very good! And Vane laid the book down with much applause. - -Decidedly the best way to win Miss Thomas was to give her her own -way. He could leave her to her own devices for a time. If she loved -Ten Eyck, there was nothing to be done by seeing her; if she did not, -a little delay would do no harm. If she loved nobody, his chance was -assured. - -This settled, Vane went to bed with the easy mind of a general who has -planned the morning's march. - - - - -IX. - - -VANE'S strategy was doubtless perfect; but in the morning he found a -note sealed and superscribed in a charmingly pretty feminine hand. -"Dear Mr. Vane," it began, "Miss Roster's skating party has been -given up. She begged me to tell you; but, as I have not seen you, I -feel obliged to send you this note. If you have nothing better to do, -why will not you come that evening? It is so long since we have read -together.--Winifred Thomas." - -"Now," thought Vane, "why should Miss Roster send word to him by Miss -Thomas?" He felt that he could not be positively rude, so at eight in -the evening he presented himself. Miss Thomas was apparently alone in -the house. She was sitting in the parlor, with no light but that of -the fire, into which she was looking with her deep blue eyes; her face -was pale, except that one cheek was rosy with the heat, imperfectly -screened from the flame with her fan. She received Vane coldly; he drew -up a chair, noticing, as he did so, her foot, which was covered only -with a slipper and a thin web of open-work black stocking, and was very -pretty. - -Miss Thomas seemed _distraite_ and depressed; he had never seen her in -that mood before, and sought in vain to draw her into conversation. She -answered only in monosyllables and still looked dreamily into the fire. -Vane felt as if he had unwittingly offended her. Finally, just as he -rose to go-- - -"Why are you so strange to-night?" - -"I--I?" stammered Vane. - -"Yes." She lifted her small head and looked full at him. It seemed -as if there was a tear lost somewhere in the depth of her eyes. Vane -became conscious that he was a brute, and thought for the first time, -odd as it may seem, of the walk which he had asked her to take the -Sunday before. He had forgotten the walk entirely. - -"I had suddenly to go to Pittsburg." This was true; but he had returned -on the Saturday. And yet he felt that he must say something, if only to -suppress his growing inclination to take her hand in his. - -"What do you mean?" said she wonderingly. They were both sitting; Vane -staring at her helplessly. - -"Why, when I broke our engagement to go to walk----" Truly he was -floundering more than ever. - -"Oh! were we engaged to go to walk?" - -A pretty mess he had made of it indeed. - -"I am only too glad you have forgotten," he said; and then rising, with -an awkward bow, he got himself and his shattered reputation for _savoir -faire_ out of the room. After putting on his overcoat, he turned back -to the threshold of the parlor. "Will you go to walk next Sunday?" he -asked bluntly. - -"I must go to church that afternoon. I am so sorry." - -Vane bowed again, and took his departure more piqued than he was -willing to acknowledge. As he went down the steps he heard a few chords -upon the piano. It was the beginning of the love-song from Francesca -da Rimini. After all, he thought, why should he be offended? She had -behaved just as he should have wished her to. He could hardly expect -her to acknowledge that she had waited for him in vain. How pretty she -had looked in the firelight! - -The next Sunday, about sunset, as he and John were returning from a -long walk in the country, two figures came out of a small church on -Sixth Avenue, well known for the excellence of its music. Miss Thomas -was one, the other John recognized as Ten Eyck. She did not seem to -see them, but the two walked rapidly ahead of them the length of the -block, and then turned down a side street. Vane pretended to be wholly -unconscious of the scene. John alone gave a grunt of surprise. And for -two weeks or more Vane treated Miss Thomas with alternate neglect and -familiarity when he met her in society; the former when he found it -possible to avoid her, the latter when he was necessarily thrown with -her. One night at a german she gave him a favor. Vane, after dancing -with her, felt obliged, in common politeness, to talk with her for a -few moments. He sought refuge in that sort of clumsy pleasantry which -our English models have taught us to call chaff; she said nothing, but -looked at him wonderingly, with large troubled eyes. She seemed as if -grieved at his manner and too proud to reproach him with it. Could she -really love the man? thought Vane. How could she? He felt as if the -suspicion did her an injury. Vane's heart melted to her as he came -home that night. He had mentally judged her as he would have judged a -woman in one of his cynical French comedies. He had treated her like -a character in a seventeenth century memoir. And how much above such -judgment was this sweet American girl! She was fond of her friends, and -true to them, and frank to him, so that he saw that she cared for him. -What did she know of the world, or of older societies, or the women in -his wicked French memoirs? She lived in new, pure, honest America; not -in the chronicles of the _Œil-de-bœuf_. And Vane felt that the best -amends he could make was to ask her to become his wife. When he hinted -this intention to Haviland that philosopher, for the first and only -time in his life, improvised a couplet: - - "Jamais la femme ne varie, - Bien fol est toujours qui s'y fie." - -Having got off this gâtha, John retired to his pipe, and became, like a -Hindoo god, impassive, ugly, and impenetrable. - - - - -X. - - -FOR some weeks Vane rested satisfied with the conclusions arrived at in -the last chapter. It was so satisfactory to have made such a resolve; -and besides, there was no cause for hastening the event. There was -singularly little impulse in his inclination. Most certainly, he meant -to put his fate to the test; but not at point-blank range. Vane was -cool enough to proceed warily; and he still clung sufficiently to the -precepts of his French authorities in matters feminine to know better -than that. For a repulse always puts the garrison on its guard, and -doubles the difficulty of investment; and a woman's heart should be -taken by siege, not assault. Other supplies should be cut off; and -then the citadel be undermined and sapped in a quiet way. The attacker -should imply boundless admiration, without actually committing himself -to a more particular sentiment--flirtation from behind earthworks--and -so, without being exposed to rebuff, gradually surround her with such -an atmosphere of incense that at last it becomes indispensable to her; -and, after one or two futile sallies, she falls before his arms. This -is the wisdom of the serpent; but Vane knew that it was never wasted -on a woman, however sweet and dovelike; if you wish her to take your -attentions seriously, you should make her think they are not serious. -And if Vane was willing to marry, he had no mind to be refused. When -Vane expounded these theories to John, the latter seemed relieved. - -A lover in New York is at no loss for opportunities to win, if he has -leisure to woo; but Vane suffered many chances to pass by without -improving them. Perhaps he was dissatisfied with his love, with -himself, with his life as he found it; he remembered, like all boys, -trying to live as if he were the hero of a novel; now it was altogether -too difficult not to live like the hero of a comedy. Vane abhorred the -eighteenth century, and all its belongings; but it seemed to him that -the world around him, and himself as part of it, were subjects apter to -a Congreve than a Homer. - -All the more, he sought to wind his affections around their object; -he would not admit to himself that there was something wanting even -in her. But the winter was nearly over before he resolved to take any -decisive step; and Miss Thomas had been growing prettier every day. -Mrs. Levison Gower was to give a sleigh-ride. They were to drive in a -procession of single sleighs, and stop at some one's country house for -an hour's skating. This opportunity would be most propitious; and Vane -decided that Miss Baby Thomas should be his companion. - -Miss Thomas seemed really very sorry. Vane admitted this afterwards, -when he sought to reason himself out of his consequent ill-humor. But -she was already engaged to ride that day in Mr. Wemyss's sleigh. It -was so unfortunate, and she was so much disappointed! Vane, however, -decided to postpone his proposal of marriage to some other occasion; -so he drove out sedately with the young and beautiful chaperone. With -her he made no sufficient effort at flirtation, and Mrs. Gower never -forgave him the omission. - -The ice was very good; and Vane was disporting himself meditatively in -one corner of the pond when Miss Thomas whirled by him on the "outer -edge." Miss Thomas was a beautiful skater; and, as she passed, she -stretched out a crooked cane as if inviting him to join her. Vane had -no desire to refuse; and in a minute the two were rolling along in -strong, sweeping curves, the girl's blue eyes gleaming with excitement -beneath their long black lashes. Her eyes had the still, violet blue -of a cleft in a glacier; Vane could not help looking into them once or -twice. The ice was broken. - -Neither of them had much to say; but for an hour or more they skated -together. The crooked stick, proving too long, was soon discarded; and -they skated hand in hand. On the shore, Wemyss was devoting himself to -the matron. He could not skate. - -Finally, the signal of recall was given. Miss Thomas made no movement -in the direction of the return, and Vane was naturally too polite to -make the first. They could see Mrs. Gower at the other end of the pond, -skurrying about, like a young hen after her chickens. Suddenly Miss -Thomas discovered that they ought to go back; but when they returned -to the shore they were the last of the party, and had the log, which -served the purpose of a seat, to themselves. Vane stooped to take off -his companion's skates, and in shaking them free Miss Thomas brought -the blade of one across his hand with some force, causing a slight -scratch on the back of his finger. She gave a little cry of horror, and -then, as the finger bled profusely, pulled out her own handkerchief, -and, before Vane could prevent her, bound it around the wound. - -"It was my fault," said she. "You can give the handkerchief to me when -we next meet." - -As they walked back, Vane, dropping behind, unwound the handkerchief -and put it in an inside pocket, then drew his glove hastily over the -scratch, which had already stopped bleeding. - -Going home, Mrs. Gower found Vane much more interesting. The heat of -the noon had melted the snow, so that the sleighing was not good, -and it was dusk before they got into the city. But when Vane left -Mrs. Gower's house for his own dinner, the sleigh which contained -Miss Thomas had not returned, though Wemyss was there, having driven -back with Miss Bellamy. Coming to his rooms, Vane unfolded the little -handkerchief and kissed it; and that night, when he went to sleep, it -was in his hand beneath the pillow. In the morning, he looked at it. -It was a cheap little thing enough, made of pieces of linen or muslin -stuff, looking like dolls' clothes sewed together, but giving the -effect of lace at a distance. - -Vane went to a store on Broadway and purchased a handkerchief of the -same size, of old point lace, and the same afternoon called upon Miss -Thomas. "I have brought you your handkerchief," said he, giving her -the one he had bought, folded up. "I am very much obliged to you for -lending to me." - -Miss Thomas took it, looked at it for a moment, then at him and thanked -him. "It was of no consequence," said she. "It was an old one." Vane -went home, much excited, perhaps a trifle disturbed in mind. Such a -rapid victory had hardly been foreseen by him. She had taken from him, -as a present, a valuable bit of lace; which must certainly mean that -she would take him, if he offered himself. And he was not quite sure, -now that the prospect was so near, that he really wished to marry Miss -Baby Thomas. He liked her immensely, and she certainly amused him more -than any other girl he knew; but he was not quite sure that he wished -to marry--at all. Now that the prize was within his reach, he shrank -back a little from plucking it. Four years ago, in Brittany, Vane had -felt himself an old man; but now it seemed that he was "ower young to -marry yet." These thoughts gave him much trouble; and in the meantime -he abstained from further complication by not calling on Miss Thomas, -and, at the same time, subjected himself to much self-analysis. Could -he honestly be content to go through life with this girl by his side? -He knew enough of life to know that it mattered very little how often a -man made a fool of himself, if he did not do so on the day when he got -married. Now Miss Thomas was certainly a very nice, sweet girl--but did -he love her enough to marry her? The outcome of his deliberation was in -the affirmative; but--another but. - -Ten days had elapsed since he gave her the handkerchief, when finally, -one Sunday afternoon, he called to see her. He half expected that he -should ask her to marry him. But he did not do so. When the call was -nearly over, she excused herself for a moment, and, going up-stairs, -returned with the handkerchief in her hand. "You have brought back the -wrong handkerchief," said she. Vane started with a shock of surprise he -could not repress. - -"I--I brought the wrong one?" he said awkwardly. - -"Yes." - -"It was the one you gave me." - -"Oh, no! it was not. This one is real lace." - -"The--the washerwoman must have made a mistake." - -Miss Thomas said nothing. - -"You must keep it all the same, Miss Thomas." - -"I cannot keep what belongs to other people," said she unappreciatively. - -Vane bit his lips. "I--I will make it right with the washerwoman," said -he clumsily. - -Miss Thomas's look was more hopelessly unsympathetic than ever; and, -folding the bit of lace, she laid it on the table by his elbow. - -"The fact is," Vane went on, with a pretended burst of confidence, "the -one you lent me was ruined: so I did get this one instead. Please take -it." - -"It is much more valuable than mine," said she coldly. - -"Please take it," said Vane again, with the iteration of a school-boy. - -Miss Thomas began to take offence. - -"How can you expect me to do such a thing?" said she, rising as if to -dismiss him. Evidently a bold push was necessary. He took the bit of -lace and threw it quickly into the open fire, counting on the feminine -instinct which would not suffer her to see old lace destroyed. With a -little cry, Miss Thomas bent down and pulled it from the coals. - -"Let it burn," said he, rising and putting on his gloves. "If you do -not want it, I am sure I do not." And he silently refused to take the -handkerchief, pretending to busy his hands with his hat and cane. -"Good-by," said he. - -"Good-by," replied Miss Thomas, coldly, laying the handkerchief back on -the centre-table. - -When Vane got to the hall he looked at her a moment in turning to open -the front door. She was standing before the fire with a heightened -color in her face, whether of a blush or anger he could not tell. - - - - -XI. - - -VANE went home much discontented with himself. He had not only behaved -like an ass, but he had made a blunder. He had gone much further than -he meant to in seeking not to go so far. And he found that he loved -her more than he thought, now that he had displeased her. He wanted -diversion that night, and did not know what to do. Miss Thomas was his -usual diversion. John was away. Finally, after dinner, he happened into -Wallack's theatre--it was the interval between the first and second -acts. The first person that he saw was Miss Thomas, and a young man in -evening dress was seated next her. Vane paid little attention to the -play, and at the end of the second act he went out without speaking to -her. - -This was simply incredible! Vane could not conceive of it. It was a -pitch of innocence beyond the range of imagination of a man educated -in France. This was America with a vengeance. It must be that she -did not care what people said. Could she know that bets were made at -the club upon the state of her own affections and the sincerity of -her admirers? Vane was much offended. He was angry with her for her -own sake. At first he thought he would go and tell her so; then he -reflected that the affair of the handkerchief would put him in rather a -false position, and, after all, she was not worth the trouble. For the -present, at least, he would not go near her. - -The next night Vane went to a "german" at Mrs. Haviland's. Miss Thomas -was there dancing with Mr. Wemyss. She received him very pleasantly. -He danced with her once or twice, and then sat down beside her, Wemyss -not coming back. Miss Thomas was dressed in a white, cloudy dress, with -sprays of violet and smilax. A wreath of the green vine was in her -black hair, and she had a large bouquet of the violets in her hand, -nearly the color of her eyes. The dress was cut low to a point in front -and behind, showing the superb poise of her small head upon her neck. -Whoever had sent her flowers must have known what her dress was to be, -or he could not have sent her the violets to match. - -When Vane left, he had made an appointment for a walk the next fine -afternoon. She had said nothing about the handkerchief. Vane feared, -every morning, to find the parcel containing it at his rooms, but it -was not sent back. He was encouraged by this, and began to make excuses -to himself for her being at the theatre. This still gave him much -anxiety, and he half decided that he would speak to her about it. - -At last there came a fine day for the walk, and Vane called at -her house at four. He had also called one day before, but she had -complained that it was too cloudy and looked like rain. This day he -found her ready. They went up Fifth Avenue to Fifty-ninth Street; -then he persuaded her to go into the park. She fascinated him that -afternoon. There was something peculiarly feminine about Miss Thomas. -Although her hair was black, it was not coarse and lustrous, but -very fine and soft, dead black in color. A soft, creamy dress hung -lovingly about her figure. She talked much about herself in a sisterly -sort of way. Vane felt a desire to protect her. She had a gentle way -of yielding, of trusting to him, of allowing him to persuade her to -continue the walk. They sat down a moment on a wooden bench among some -seringa-bushes; above them were the branches of an oak just leafing -out, swaying in the wind and casting changing flecks of light and shade -upon the gravel path and the folds of her gown. There were soft lights -in her face, and her eyes were like two blue gentians. - -"Miss Thomas, I have a question to ask you," began Vane, suddenly. "You -will promise not to be offended?" - -"Yes," said she innocently, opening her eyes wider. - -"Are you engaged to be married?" - -"No," said she almost instantly, as if without reflecting. Then she -blushed violently, and silently rose to go home. - - - - -XII. - - -VANE wished himself at the bottom of the lake, if that ornamental piece -of water were deep enough to drown. It seemed like one of those foolish -things one does in a nightmare, without being able to prevent it. Now -first he saw how impossible it was to go on and talk to her--to preach -a sermon to her--as he had thought he intended. It would mortally -offend her if she were not mortally offended already. What right had he -to criticise her conduct, particularly when criticism would certainly -imply disapproval? With all his reproach came a glow of satisfaction. -She was certainly not in love with any one, she had answered so -instantly. Then with this thought came the sting again that he had -wounded her. - -"I--I saw you at the theatre the other night." - -Miss Thomas remained silent. - -"Were you not at the theatre with Mr. Ten Eyck?" persisted Vane. - -"I was at the theatre with my brother," replied Miss Thomas, icily. -"Mr. Ten Eyck sat in his seat for a few moments, I believe. Will you -stop that car, if you please, it is getting so late." - -Vane did so with an ill grace. He had counted on the walk home to alter -her impressions, and now this opportunity was lost. They took seats and -sat for several blocks in silence. Vane looked at her covertly, and saw -that the flush of indignation had given place to pallor, and that she -looked grieved. He could have wrung his own neck. - -Coming finally to her door, he felt that he must say something. He -stood a moment on the stoop. Then, "Miss Thomas, please forgive me," he -said gravely. She hesitated a moment. - -"Are you offended?" he added, for the sake of something to say. "Pray -forgive me. I had a reason for asking, and an excuse." - -"I might forgive you," she said, with her hand on the door, "but it -would have been better for you not to have said it." She opened the -door and went into the house, leaving Vane on the threshold with a -distinct impression that she was going to cry. - -He walked along, mechanically, in the direction of his rooms, feeling -his cheeks burn. That he had bungled--that he had committed a social -gaucherie, he knew well enough; but what troubled him more than this -was that he had given her real cause for offence, he had hurt her. If -she could only know what pain this thought brought to him! Fool that he -was, he had worn his clumsy, jejune mask of cynicism, and had not once -shown to her his truer self. He was more at fault than the world was; -and she was not of the world, and he had blamed her for it. - -He stopped on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-third Street, -half-way down the hill, and looked at his watch. It was nearly six. -He did not wish to go back to his rooms; he had no engagement that -evening. As he stood irresolute, he took off his hat to Mrs. Gower, -who passed by in her carriage. Then he resolved to go down to his -office and work that evening, as was his habit when he wished to banish -from his mind a too persistent thought. He walked back through the -cross-street, to get the railway on Sixth Avenue, and still thinking -how Miss Thomas was probably crying over his rudeness, locked in her -own room. How _could_ he have done it! As he approached her house, he -felt almost tempted to go in again; but the front door opened slowly, -and, after a momentary pause, he saw Ten Eyck come out, walk down the -steps and rapidly away. Vane grew very angry with himself and her; -until he reflected that she could not possibly have known that Ten Eyck -was coming that afternoon. And, indeed, he probably had not been let in. - -None the less did Vane work savagely through the evening, taking a -lonely dinner at the "down-town" Delmonico's. At about midnight he left -his office and walked all the way up to his room, smoking, and thinking -what he could do to win Miss Thomas's forgiveness. The gas was burning -low in his study, and he saw a square white packet among the letters -lying on his table. He felt that shuddering weakness in the loins, as -if all within were turned to water, which he had learned to recognize -as the work of that first apprehension of a serious misfortune which -comes a moment before the mind has fully grasped it. He sank upon -the sofa with a long breath, and looked at the letter silently for -several minutes. It was a neat note, beautifully sealed and delicately -addressed; like all her notes, bearing no evidence of a servant's dirty -pocket. He opened it, fearing to find in it the lace handkerchief -without a word; but no, there was a note with it: - - "MY DEAR MR. VANE-- - - "I send you back your handkerchief. It is still a little burned; but - perhaps you can make some use of it. I ought to have returned it - sooner, but was having it mended. - - "Sincerely yours, - "WINIFRED THOMAS." - -So! thought Vane; it was all over now. He had bungled it shamefully. - - - - -XIII. - - -HE went to sleep as soon as he could--which was not very soon; and woke -up, with a sob, from a dream in which they were both very miserable. -It was an hour earlier than his usual time for rising, and, as he went -into the park, the birds were singing quite as they might have sung in -the country. - -On considering her note critically, he did not think it so hopeless -as it had seemed in the night. And again he repaired to his office. -Business was very good at this time, and Vane was rapidly becoming rich. - -He waited many days for a chance to speak to her; and finally the -chance arrived, at an evening party. Curiously enough, he was more -afraid of her in a simple morning frock, worn in her own house, with -the little edging of white lace around the throat, than in evening -dress, in all the splendor of her woman's beauty. He did not like her -so well with bare neck, and bare arms, and a sweeping cloud of white -about her, and white satin slippers. She was more like the other women -one could meet in the world. She looked at him coldly; but none the -less did he determine to speak to her. Her partner left her at once; -and Vane led her into the embrasure of a window. - -"I want you to forgive me my question of the other afternoon." - -Miss Thomas made no answer. - -"You would, if you knew my excuse." - -"I don't see what possible excuse there can be," she said, gravely. - -"There is one--and the best of all excuses," he added, in a lower tone. - -"I do not understand you." - -"Are you sure?" said Vane, with a low laugh. - -She met his eyes, calmly, for an appreciable duration of time. "I wish -you would tell me what it is," she went on seriously. - -"Some time, perhaps, I will." - -"Why not now?" - -Vane shook his head. "I will tell you when you take back the -handkerchief." - -"I shall never take back the handkerchief." - -"You do not know how persistent I am. I shall ask you every week until -you do." - -Miss Thomas slightly moved her shoulders. He could have fallen at her -feet then and there. It was dark behind the curtain, all except her -eyes, and she looked at him almost tenderly, and made no effort to end -the conversation. Vane felt that he was very deeply in love with her. - -"Do you really wish to know the reason why I asked you that question?" -he said, hastily. "Do you ask me now?" - -"Perhaps I shall ask you some time," she said, dropping her eyes. - -Vane bit his lip, and clenched his fingers, which had been dangerously -near hers. At first he did not know what to reply. - -"As for the handkerchief, you shall surely take it some time. I will -give it to you when you are married." - -She blushed deeply. "Thank you," she said, "I would rather have a new -one, then. But it is time for me to go home--or--I think I should like -an ice first. Will you get me one?" - -When Vane returned, two or three men were about her. She took the ice, -but, after tasting it, put it aside indifferently. "I really think I -must be going now," she said, giving her arm to one of her companions. - -Vane was determined not to be outdone, so he went to find her carriage, -and had the pleasure of shutting the door himself; the two other men -standing by. "Good night," said he, in a low tone. She made no reply -until he had got back to the sidewalk; then, "Good night, every one!" -she called out as the horses sprang away, restive with the cold. Vane -went back to the supper-room to get a glass of champagne, and then -walked home. - -After this, he decided to leave the course of events with her. He had -surely told her, as plainly as a man could tell a woman, that he loved -her. He had also told her that he would ask her to marry him whenever -she wished--whenever she would forgive him a rude question for which -his love was the best possible excuse. So two months passed without his -speaking to her seriously. But he felt well assured that he loved her. - - - - -XIV. - - -ONE day in June, Vane sat in his office with two notes open on the desk -before him. One was from Mrs. Levison Gower, inviting him to make one -of a moonlight picnic party. They were to be conveyed up the Hudson -in Mr. Gower's steam-launch, land just above Yonkers, take possession -of a grove, and have dinner there for no other reason than that they -might dine with much more convenience and propriety on the deck of the -yacht. The other note before Vane was from Dr. Kérouec, in Brittany, -announcing a serious change in the condition of his mother. - -He had already decided to take the next steamer for Havre. He had been -making his preparations all the day; but for some reason had postponed -answering Mrs. Gower's note. And now he was face to face with a strong -desire to see Miss Thomas once more before he went away. And, after -all, why should he not go? His mother had been ill for so many years, -and he felt that she would still be ill for so many years more; and -Mrs. Gower's party was to be the day before the departure of his -steamer. He knew that Miss Thomas would be there. He had quite decided -not to call at her house again; he had not called there for the last -two months; but he longed for a glimpse of her face to take away with -him. It might be so long before he came back, and so many things might -happen while he was gone. - -Miss Thomas was the first person Vane saw, standing by the entrance, as -he went on board the yacht. She was evidently looking for some one; but -when she saw Vane, she turned away. Vane kept up a rapid conversation -with his hostess until a lady arrived whom he knew, when he walked with -her to the other side of the yacht. Meantime he could see that Miss -Thomas was covertly watching his movements, and talking with no one. -Her eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went; but he was careful not -to get within speaking distance. - -After many delays, caused by languid guests, late hampers, and the -vacillations of Mrs. Gower herself, the little steamer cast off and -proceeded up the river. Mrs. Gower took command in the yacht, extending -her jurisdiction, as Vane observed, quite to the limit of the pilot's -politeness. At first, owing to the smells of the manufacturing -establishments which lined the river, and divers distasteful sights -about the wharves, but little attention was paid to the scenery; but -when the city was left behind, and the western shore grew bolder, -Nature was rewarded with all the adjectives of feminine enthusiasm. -Vane heard less of this, however, as conversation grew more general. -When due appreciation of the Hudson's beauties had been shown, the -company broke up into groups of two or three camp-stools, and every -little clump fell to discussing its neighbors. Here and there was a -group of two--a male and female--oblivious of neighbors and discussing -each other. The Palisades looked on in silence. It seemed to Vane that -the occasion was only saved from insignificance by the presence of Miss -Thomas. - -When they touched shore at the grove appointed for the picnic, most -of the ladies and gentlemen, eager to land as if it had been an ocean -voyage, crowded to the gangway. Mrs. Gower felt it her duty to show the -way, and skilfully forced a passage through her guests, Vane, who was -at that moment busied with the duty of protecting her, following in -her wake. Her rapid motion caused a sort of eddy in which Vane moved -behind her without much effort; so that, looking about him, he saw Miss -Thomas beside him. Her companion was a young man with an eye-glass, -looking like a student in college, the consciousness of his own merits -continually at war with the world's estimate of them; so that the -unceasing struggle of a proper self-assertion left him little breath -for words. In one of the pauses of his conversation, Miss Thomas turned -rapidly to Vane. - -"Are you never going to speak to me again?" - -"Have you forgiven me yet?" - -This little interchange of questions was so quick that it hardly could -have been noticed by any one. Miss Thomas turned back to her companion -before he had even time to miss her attention; and indeed his mind -was fully occupied in grappling for his next remark; while Vane was -incontinently swept over the gang-plank in the vortex of Mrs. Gower. - -She certainly looked very pretty that day, thought Vane, as he walked -up the hill with the latter lady; but he was sure now that he had no -mind to be refused by her. Better even the present than that. She had -on another soft, clinging dress, of ivory white, which only lent an -added charm to her skin of whiter ivory, the dead black hair, and those -wonderful violet--"Ah--oh, yes," said Vane to Mrs. Gower; and then, -seeing this lady laugh, "Yes, very funny--hah!" - -"I was telling you of Mrs. Grayling's sad experience in Rome," said -Mrs. Gower, demurely; "but I fear you were not thinking of her." - -Vane vowed to keep a tighter rein on his thoughts thereafter; and they -came to a little glade in the wood, where the servants were laying -table-cloths on the turf. The dinner was very gay. Some ladies screamed -when a daddy-longlegs ran into the lobster salad, but an occasional -pine-needle, falling into a glass of champagne, seemed but to add to -its flavor. It was considered _de rigueur_ to sit upon the grass; -but most of the men found it very awkward to assume attitudes of any -decorative value, and the college student in particular was heard to -wonder audibly how the deuce the Romans did it. After the feast, the -company divided itself into couples and scattered in the woods. Miss -Thomas did not leave the table; and Mrs. Gower felt obliged to wait for -the last. Wemyss stayed with her. As Vane passed behind Miss Thomas, -she called him to her. - -"I have something to tell you to-day." - -"Will not some other time do?" said Vane, "I am getting a glass of -wine for Mrs. Gower." The girl looked at him, but did not seem to take -offence. - -"I may never tell you, if I do not tell you to-day," she answered, -seriously, in a low voice. Vane looked at her surprised; she bore his -gaze for half a second, and then let her own eyes drop. The student was -looking on with parted lips. "Oh, Mr. Bronson," said she, immediately, -"I wish you would get me a glass of champagne--and seltzer, too!" She -said the "too" with an inflection that made it sound like _do_. - -The youth departed on his errand; and Vane also left, saying that -he would be back in a moment; but he was saved a double journey by -observing that some one else had brought Mrs. Gower her wine and had -taken his seat beside her. Vane returned to Miss Thomas, passing -rapidly over in his mind what had happened in the four months since he -had asked her that fatal question, and trying to decide upon a course -of action for himself. She had made no effort to have him speak to her -before to-day. But by her presence the picnic was quite saved from -insignificance. - -"I have come back, Miss Thomas," he said, seriously. "What can you have -to tell me?" - -Miss Thomas looked at the tent, before which Bronson was -standing--waiting for her seltzer. Most of the guests had left the -place, and the servants were clearing away the dinner. The moon was -just rising. - -"Will you not come for a walk?" said Vane. Miss Thomas gave him her -hand, and he helped her to her feet. "I am forgetting your wine," he -said, afterwards. He was ill at ease and nervous. - -"You know that I never drink wine at parties," she answered; and just -as Bronson came back to the place where she had been sitting, they -disappeared in the forest. Bronson had a long neck supported by a very -stiff standing collar, and when his dignity was compromised he had a -way of throwing back his head and resting his chin upon the points of -his collar. He did this now, and the Adam's apple in his throat worked -prominently. Then, after looking gravely a moment at the seat which had -been Miss Thomas's, as if to be satisfied that she had really gone, he -drank the champagne himself and went back to the tent, where he found a -male acquaintance, to whom he proposed a smoke. "It is such a relief to -get away for a minute from the women," he murmured, as he threw himself -on the grass and rolled a cigarette. "By the way, did you see that -little girl I was with? Nice dress, you know--quiet little thing. Well, -by gad, sir, I believe there's something up between her and that fellow -Vane." - - - - -XV. - - -AFTER they left the place of the dinner, Miss Thomas walked on for some -time in silence, and Vane had inwardly resolved not to be the first to -break their peace of mind. The woods, being part of a private estate, -had received some care. There was no underbrush, and they were walking -in a well-kept path. The moon was now high enough to make a play of -light among the leafage and to outline with a silver tracery the smooth -twigs and trunks of the trees before them. - -Vane was silently wondering what Miss Thomas could mean. He became -strangely self-possessed and cautious, and it occurred to him that this -was the sort of clear-sightedness a man would have who was gambling -and playing for a very large amount. He thought to himself that this -was just the way fellows usually got married. Vane had been brought up -to suppose that the proper way to reach a young lady's heart, or at -least her hand, was through the judgment of her parents; but, somehow, -this did not seem to be necessary in New York, certainly not with Miss -Thomas; and he felt that there was a danger of his asking Miss Thomas, -to-night, to become Mrs. Vane. And, after all, he felt to-night that it -was by no means certain that he wished Mrs. Vane to have been Miss Baby -Thomas. - -The long silence became embarrassing, but Vane did not quite know what -to say, and Miss Thomas had apparently no desire to say anything. The -path they were in led up to a low stone wall in a sort of clearing on -the side of the hill, with a distant view of the Hudson. Vane assisted -Miss Thomas over the wall, and then, getting over it himself, sat down -upon it. The girl sat down beside him. Both looked at the river. - -"What did you have to say to me?" said Vane, at last. - -"I wished to tell you that I had forgiven your question," Miss Thomas -answered in a low, quiet voice, looking away from him across the water. - -"Entirely?" - -"Entirely, from the heart." - -Vane certainly did have a thrill of pleasurable excitement at this -speech. It was the sort of glow, the tingling feeling about the waist -he had felt when about to mount a strange horse whose temper he had -not tested. He looked at the girl. She was half sitting, half leaning, -against the wall. Her flowing dress had caught the sheen of the moon, -and the white figure shone brightly against the dark leaves. She might -have been a naiad or a wood-nymph, and yet there was a subtle feminine -presence about her. With some girls you can associate on terms of -fellowship, make companions of them, perhaps even sit on the fence in -the moonlight and talk to them amicably, as to another man. But you -could never forget that Miss Thomas was a woman. - -"I was really very much hurt," she said, "and I think you ought to have -begged my pardon." - -"I did," said Vane, "and I told you I had the best possible excuse." - -"But you never told me what the excuse was." The young man sat on a -lower stone than hers, and, as he looked up to her, the radiance fell -full upon her face, and he saw the moon reflected in her eyes. - -Why should he doubt this girl? Had he not been deeply in love with her? -And, after all, had she not borne herself, in all their relations, -as he would have wished her to, as he would have wished her to be, -supposing that she cared for him? She had often been right in being -offended with him, but she was too gentle to be long angry--she was -lovely in forgiving. Had he not plainly let her know what should be the -signal for him to declare his love? Was not this as much encouragement -as any woman would give? Strangely enough, now that he was sure of her -he almost doubted of himself. - -"Do you really ask me to tell you of my excuse?" said Vane, and he felt -a little ashamed of himself for the prevaricating question. "Do you not -know?" - -Miss Thomas said nothing, but made a slight motion of her dress. Vane -bit his lip, and felt that this was cowardly. The moon had gone into -a cloud, but he fancied, from the position of her head, that she was -looking at him with her large eyes. Her dress seemed to have a light of -its own, which made her form still visible in the darkness. Suddenly he -pictured to himself the way his conduct would look to her if she really -cared for him, and he felt sure that she did, and he knew that she -attracted him more than any woman he had ever met. - -"Because I love you, Winifred," said Vane, and he laid his hand on hers. - -"Oh--h," sighed the girl with a sort of shudder, as if he had given her -pain, "I am so sorry." Vane caught his breath. "Oh, I am so sorry!" -Vane pressed her little hand convulsively. "Oh, I never thought it was -this. Why did you tell me? Why did you not leave it unsaid? Now I shall -lose you for always." Her voice broke in a sob. - -"Do you mean that you will not marry me? Do you mean that you do not -love me? You must know how I have loved you." Vane covered her hand -with kisses. Miss Thomas seemed to be unconscious of this, but went on -in a sort of cry, asking him to forgive her. "Do you mean that there is -no hope?" said he, gravely. - -"Oh, no! none. You know how much I like you, but I can never marry -you. You will forget all this, will you not?" There was a long silence -between them, but her hand still lay in his. Meantime the sky had grown -black in front of them. Vane was straining his eyes to see her face. -There was a flash of lightning, and he saw that her cheek was wet with -tears. Some large drops of rain came pattering down among the leaves. - -"We must hurry back," said Vane suddenly, dropping her hand. She rose -silently and followed him along the path. In a few moments they got -back to the place of supper. They were the first to arrive, but in a -moment they heard voices in the shrubbery. - -"You will try and forget this evening, will you not?" said Miss Thomas, -hurriedly. "Try and be as if it had never happened. And oh, tell me, -are you very unhappy?" - -"I am very sorry," said he, "but I am going to-morrow to France." -Miss Thomas made a movement of surprise, but there was no time for -more to be said, as the thunderstorm was really upon them, and every -one was hastening to the river. On the boat Vane found Miss Thomas a -seat, and then went alone to the bow. He was very unhappy. He had not -fancied that he would be so unhappy. He was very much disappointed, -and, perhaps, a little angry. Coming up from the wharf in New York he -was, as a matter of course, put in the same carriage with Miss Thomas. -There were two other people with them, and Vane endeavored to act light -comedy, but was not well seconded by the girl herself, who was silent -and very pale. They went to Mrs. Gower's house for supper, but all the -women were wet, and most of the men ill-tempered, and the party broke -up early. Vane took his leave at once, and went back to his lodgings -to finish his packing for the voyage. As soon as he had done he went -immediately to bed and fell asleep late in the night, having as a -latest waking thought the consciousness that he had for many months -been making a fool of himself. - - - - -XVI. - - -THIS was still the most marked flavor in his self-consciousness the -next morning, and when he rode to the wharf, when he entered the cabin -decked with flowers as if for a funeral, even when they steamed out -to sea, the bitter aftertaste of folly did not leave him. He was in -the mid-Atlantic before his self-communings began to be mitigated -by his sense of humor. Truly there had been no need to consider -quite so nicely his duties to Miss Thomas. He had thought himself -too far involved to retreat gracefully without a proposal. He had -felt compelled to precipitate matters. He had feared to wound her -deeply otherwise, though conscious, at the time, that his offer was -rather magnanimous than passionate. He had had a continual fear of -compromising her, too old-fashioned a reverence for woman, too European -a sense of honor. He had done her too much honor. Apparently she had -not considered him in so serious a light, this American. - -That he had been a most unconscionable ass Vane knew very well. This -conviction, however, is a sentiment we can easily bear while it is -unshared by others, and, fortunately, none of Vane's friends were so -clearly convinced of it. None of his friends knew much about this -affair. - -After all, he had almost given a sigh of relief when the welcome words -of freedom came to her lips. He was well out of it. It had been a very -sharp little skirmish, and he was not sorry that he had escaped in -good order, heart and honor whole. At this point Vane again appeared -to himself as an ass, but he only smiled at the apparition. Fortunate -affairs those, which vanish with a laugh! So he dismissed the matter -from his mind. - -When Vane landed at Havre the whole thing seemed like a dream. There -was the familiar chalk cliff and the wide estuary, and the people -seated on little, iron, painted chairs, in the cafés, reading _Figaro_, -just as he had left them, with nothing changed but the date in the -newspaper. A certain flippancy lurks in the sky of France, or was the -flippancy _là-bas_ in America? Vane was not quite sure. - -He had had no letter from the doctor since that first one received -in New York. Indeed there had been no way for one to have reached -him before his arrival in Havre, and he was not sure that the doctor -knew in which steamer he was crossing. But Vane was anxious to get to -Rennes. Instead of going up one side of the river and down the other -by rail, he decided to make a cut across the country, so he took the -ferry for Trouville. The place was full of people--people such as you -find anywhere, people such as you might see in Newport or New York--and -Vane hastened to leave it. He found a diligence driven by an old man -in a blue blouse, that took the country people and their eggs and -chickens to and from the market at Trouville, and retained a seat on -the outside. They left the watering-place at sunset, and, after driving -a few miles along the beach--the fashionable drive--by the painted -pavilions and villas, they struck inland through the grass uplands -still fragrant with the hay. - -I do not want to make anything tragic of Vane's arrival at Rennes. It -was hardly that to him. He had taken the midnight mail from Caen after -a six hours' journey in the sweet July evening; and when he arrived in -Rennes in the morning his mother was dead and had been buried, and the -priests in the great cathedral, even then, were saying masses for her -soul. The old physician, like few physicians, but like all old Bretons, -was an ardent Catholic, and had sought to secure to his patient one -surreptitious chance of salvation before his heretic friend arrived. -"Yes, my son," said he, "at the last she died, _tout doucement_, it is -now three weeks. She never recovered herself, though I had the abbé -with her and the Presence by her side. She never knew you or me, thou -dost remember, and at the end she died silently, and spoke not at all. -Ah! mon pauvre ami, quelle sainte femme!" cried the doctor, forgetting -that he had never known Mrs. Vane in her right mind. - -The masses, thought Vane, would do no harm, and he stayed two or three -weeks with Dr. Kérouec in his old house near Rennes. - -The doctor, though growing old, was very busy. He had numberless -charitable meetings in the afternoons, and his practice took up the -mornings. His evenings were usually passed with Vane and the abbé over -tric-trac and boston. The doctor was the head of many benevolent clubs, -"Sociétés de Consommation," and such like. He knew to a unit how many -poor people had consumed the society's soup, for each of the past forty -years, in Rennes, and seemed to derive much satisfaction from these -figures and their annual increase. He never spoke again to Vane of the -young lady with the dot, and it turned out that she had married M. le -Vicomte's son. - -Meantime Vane wandered through the rosy lanes, and the country came to -him with a sense of rest. Life's silent woods are so near its highways, -after all! And Vane had been a boy in this country, and it had a -glamour for him; and, truly, it is a sweet corner in the world. He had -gone out of it into all that was great and new, and now he came back to -it, like a foot-worn pilgrim, with nothing but his staff and scrip. And -as he thought this, he was passing a great army of the peasantry, not -all peasantry, for many a lady, too, was walking amid the wooden shoes. -Before the long procession, among the crucifixes, was carried the -ermine banner of Queen Anne. It was the annual pilgrimage to Lourdes. -He looked after them curiously, so earnestly they marched, chanting -their simple aves and their litanies to St. Anne of Auray. But they -did not walk to Gascony, but only to the railway, whence they went by -special train. - -Vane did not feel deeply his mother's death. Indeed it hardly seemed -that she could have died so lately; it was rather as if she had -been dead many years. All the old seemed to have faded away out of -his life, and everything new was rather unreal. As for Baby Thomas, -she was either forgotten completely or dismissed with a slighting -half-memory. The older love was as much in his mind and its ghost -was as real a figure as this memory of yesterday. He walked over to -Monrepos one afternoon when the doctor had a meeting at his house. -The place was rented by an English family, and some stout girls were -playing lawn tennis, while a comely youth, lying lazily on the grass, -looked on critically over a short pipe. Vane sat on the walk and -began to poke pebbles with his stick again. He had succeeded; and the -result was emptiness. Why could not this poor sordid success have come -sooner,--and his father, and so his mother, might have been alive -to-day. - - - - -XVII. - - -WHEN he got home (Dr. Kérouec's house he called _home_) he found two -American letters. One was a business letter, but on the other he -recognized the familiar delicate angles of Miss Thomas's writing. He -was displeased at this. The note was like some petty daily duty busying -one in an hour of insight--like the call of the prompter in some stupid -play. It changed all, even to the language of his thought. What the -deuce can she have to say in a letter? he said to himself. He thought -he had done with her. - -It was characteristic of the man that he opened the business letter -first. It was from his partner, who was growing old and more and more -reliant on Vane's judgment, and it contained an offer of a quarter of a -million from Welsh for their interest in the Bellefontaine and Pacific -Railway. Nearly every village in the Western States has a Pacific -railway, but comparatively few have reached the Pacific. Most of them -run vaguely in a westerly direction for a hundred miles or so, and are -managed by an agent of the bondholders. But the Bellefontaine P. R. -was parallel to another Pacific road, which had at last been put on a -successful basis by Welsh, the railroad king; and Welsh, who had sold -all his own stock in the successful road, of which he was president, -and who had further agreed to sell considerably more stock than he -owned, was now desirous of finishing the Bellefontaine and Pacific, -and running it in competition with his own road. Vane wrote a telegram -advising his partner to demand half a million for their interest in the -Bellefontaine Pacific; and then he opened Miss Thomas's letter. Cinerea -Lake, June 25, 187-, it was dated. Now, where and what, thought Vane, -is Cinerea? - - "My dear Mr. Vane," it ran on, "I think of you all the day, and often - cannot sleep at night. What can you think of me? If I could only see - you, and feel that you would understand me; how unhappy you have - made me by what you told me the other evening! I wish now that I had - not told you of my forgiveness, although I had fully forgiven you in - my heart. I wish I had not spoken it, and then our friendship would - not have been broken. I feel now that you cannot think of me as your - friend; that you believe I have been intentionally cruel and unkind - to you. Why _did_ you tell me? - - "I may be doing wrong, wrong again, in writing to you. I want so much - to ask you to come to see me--you will come, won't you? when you come - back? - - "W. T. Sunday night." - -"Pish!" said Vane, and he crumpled up the letter in his pocket and went -to walk, in the late afternoon. Returning, the doctor passed him in a -carriage with footmen, and he met him on the threshold of his house -with an invitation to visit at Monrepos. The people who had taken the -place were friends of the Greshams, and had known Mrs. Vane. Of course, -Vane could not go; but the question gave the needed fillip to his -action. He must do something; he must go somewhere. It is the nature of -man to go somewhere. - -So Vane went to many places that summer. It is customary in romances -for men thus wandering to be haunted by the thought of something. Vane -was haunted by the thought of nothing. He did not even think of Miss -Thomas, or, if he thought of her, it was to think that he thought -nothing of her; it is nearly the same thing. He began by going to -Biarritz and Lourdes, in the path of the pilgrims. At Lourdes there -is a modern, ugly church upon a hill, with modern, manufactured glass -within; the grotto is underneath, surrounded always by hundreds of -pilgrims--many bedridden, some dying. The figure of the Virgin is robed -in a white gown, with a blue silk wrapper and a golden crown. You -may buy small replicas of it in the shops. Vane was duly shocked, as -becomes a Protestant. But one thing he liked in Lourdes--an expression -he heard used by an old priest in defending the miracle. It was, he -said, an example of the divine foolishness of the ways of God--the -Virgin's appearance to a simple child. Vane fancied that there might be -follies that had something in them of divine and much good sense that -smacked only of the world and the flesh. One got plenty of good sense -in New York. - -When he left Lourdes he went eastward, through Gascony and Languedoc. -The sweet contentment of the harvest was over the country, the healthy -happiness of nature's reproduction, of fruitage and of growing seed. -All earth and nature is happy where it is not conscious. There was a -mighty harvest that year, and all the people of the country were busied -with it, getting themselves their daily bread, delivered, for the time, -from evil. - -In the south of France there are wide plains and cornfields, and in -them is more than one great dead city, sleeping like some old warrior -in the peaceful afternoon of his days. The huge armor of cyclopean -walls has served its time, but still stands out, frowning, from the -sea of yellow grain; the city inside has shrunk within the walls, and -no longer fills them. Such a place is Aigues Mortes or Carcassonne; -nestling in the arms of fortresses, quiet and still, as if protected -by them and lulled to sleep. Stern in semblance as these walls may be, -they are pasteboard, like Don Quixote's helmet; they date from less -noisy days than ours; the mortarless masonry would rattle to the ground -at the sound of cannon. However, they have been of use in older days, -and it is pleasant, even now, to wander in the summer by the shadow of -the walls and look out upon the farms and the green things growing. - -When a New Yorker enters these places, though, their atmosphere -is something deathlike to him. This merely vegetable growth, this -life of the market-day and harvest, is deathly dull; and the place -itself, as the phrase is, dead and alive. Possibly, our fabulous New -Yorker visiting these places (if he visits them we must make him -fabulous)--possibly, he may find things to admire in them; and the -first day, he smokes his cigar on the battlements and gets along well -enough. But towards the afternoon of the second--when he has had his -morning drive, and his daughter has brought home her water-color--a -terrible pall of silence, a stealthy, dread ennui comes over him. Ten -to one but he flies by the night express to the nearest city with an -evening paper--Marseilles, let us say, or Nice. And there, the daughter -finds a band in the Promenade des Anglais, and her water-color remains -unfinished. - -Vane was conscious of some of this; he had been long enough in New York -for that. There was little here to interest an American. But still, it -was pleasant; and life was made so simple an affair! and its outside -was so sweet. How much more life promised to one in America! He did not -distrust the promise; but a question is the first shade of doubt. And -it really seemed, sometimes, as if, in ceasing to oppress one another, -men had forgotten how to make each other happy. - -There is much beauty to be found in the South of France; with a -something grander, more venerable, in these old moulds of life than one -can expect among discordant sects and syncretisms. Vane enjoyed his -summer to the full, and drank in the sunlight like a wine, forgetting -that he was alone. And the people seemed so full and sound; with -qualities of their own, and self-supporting lives; not characters that -they assumed, or tried to make other people give them; nor with natures -colorless, flavorless, save for some spirit of a poor ambition. - -I do not know what Vane had in his mind when this last thought so -struggled for expression. He was not ill-natured, nor yet excessively -captious. I suppose he was a little disappointed with his own country. -At all events, he soon forgot America that summer. And, after all, he -had seen but one unit, and there are more than fifty millions of them. -Nor, perhaps, did he yet know Miss Thomas--the unit whom he had known -best. - - - - -XVIII. - - -IN his life, Henry Vane had hitherto been prospecting. He had sunk -several shafts deep into it, and had worked them honestly, but he -had not had very much success. He had struck gold; but he had not -struck much of anything else; and gold had now ceased to be of the -first importance. The prime solution of the difficulty had only been -postponed, in Brittany, that day five years before; it had not been -met. The demands of a human life had never been liquidated; they had -been funded, temporarily; and now the note was falling due. He, also, -had been getting his daily bread, and had been delivered from evil. - -But now the old question kept recurring, and the sphinx would have an -answer. The premature harvest was over (he was in Spain), forced into -sooner ripeness by those passionate skies; all the country was burned, -the herbage gone, the hot earth cracked and ravined. Only the yellow -oranges were yet to come, that ripened for the winter; and the orange -groves still gave some verdure to the hills, contrasting with the sober -skies. Along the ridge by the Mediterranean was a file of graceful palm -trees, swinging their languid arms above the sea. - -Vane had come along the coast as far as Tarragona; and he was lying -in the shadow of the lovely hill of Monserrat, thinking. He had been -reading his letters again; and was seeking to come to some resolve. -Nobody in the world had any claim upon his action now, save only the -old doctor at Rennes. Vane had promised him a visit every summer. - -He had now no great duty in America; but still, he felt that he -must soon be going back. For good or evil, his path lay there. And -after all, this island in an eddy of the world, this shore of the -Mediterranean, facing backward to the East--it was idle staying here. -He smiled to himself as he thought of his own older thoughts, when he -had melodramatically planned for a war or some forlorn hope in African -discovery. There is something half shameful, half sad, in seeing one's -own older folly, one's boyish vanity and egotism. He had the necessary -money now, but there was no longer anything attractive to him in the -life of Paris; even dreams of adventure in the Soudan did not now fire -his imagination. Vane had learned that no American could do without -America, least of all an American with nothing but his country left. -What was he doing on this shelvage of a bounded sea? this stage setting -for past dramas, where the play was over and the lights turned out. And -Vane thought to himself of Bellefontaine, Ohio, and the great future -of the West, and eager Wall Street. The phrases rolled off glibly, -like a well-taught lesson. Still, their being trite did not prevent -their being true. Surely there was something real, something actual, -progressive in America, to make one's life worth living there. His own -country aroused his interest, was worth his study. As for the trivial -girl with whom he had flirted--by whom he had been corrupted--he had -wasted his time over her. When he went back he would go farther abroad. - -And return he must. He was wanted in America. The--the affairs of his -bank required his presence. His old partner, by this time, was probably -wild with irritation and amazement at his prolonged absence; and there -would be heaps of letters awaiting him at Seville; a _crescendo_ of -increasing urgency, ending with daily telegrams. Then there was the -sale of the railway. If successful, it meant an assured fortune, to him -and his heirs, if he had any. And an assured fortune is like a license, -a ticket-of-leave to mould your future as you will. Vane spent much -time in endeavoring to make this motive sufficient unto himself. - -He took steamer at Valencia and sailed out, westward, between the -Pillars of Hercules. After all, this was more than Ulysses had ever -dared do, and Ulysses was a hero of epic. Moreover, like any Irish -emigrant, Ulysses had believed in the blessed Western isles. But then -Ulysses had been in search of a home; he, Vane, was only in search of a -fortune. - -The steamer touched at Cadiz for several days; and there Vane went -ashore and ran up to Seville, by rail, to get his letters. There was no -other letter from Miss Thomas. Then he went to Granada, and wandered -for an evening through the Alhambra. - -He had got his New York papers at Seville, and he spent half an hour or -more looking over the stock quotations, on a hill near the Generalife. -Stocks seemed to be higher than ever; he had made still more money. -While he was doing this he heard the tinkling of a zither or guitar, -and, looking down, he saw that the sound proceeded from the courtyard -of what was, apparently, a little inn or venta. - -The broad Vega lay smiling beneath him, stretching green and fertile -to the last low hill from which the banished Moor had looked back upon -Granada; while around him, in every street and alley, was the tinkle of -the waters, still rushing from their source in the snows through the -Moor's aqueducts, which kept his memory green with the verdure of the -one green spot in Spain. Far above, to the left of Vane as he sat, were -the pale snows of the Sierra Nevada, amber or ashen in the brown air of -evening. The short work of the Spanish day was over; the strumming of -guitars was multiplied in the stillness; and, looking down again, Vane -even saw a girl dancing in the little inn yard. - -There was no other spectator but a swarthy man in black--her lover, -probably--with a gray hat, and a black scarf about his waist. He was -playing on the zither, and the girl began to sing some strange Spanish -air with long, chromatic cadences, and a wild, unusual rhythm. - -They did not know that he was looking on; and the girl went on with her -dance, which no one else seemed to notice but the lover, who struck -his hands together, now and then, in applause or to mark the rhythm. -Vane watched with interest. It was curious to think that she was really -dancing, dancing and singing, and neither of them was paid for it. - -Vane landed in New York about the first of September. - - - - -XIX. - - -HE went to the bank, and found that nothing more had been heard from -Welsh. There was nothing doing; even his partner was out of town. The -city was empty. Vane's first act was to send to Doctor Kérouec a sum -sufficient to endow liberally and for all time all the _sociétés de -consommation_ that there were in Rennes. It did not cost much; and the -money was thriftily invested by the doctor, with a most gratifying -increase in the annual statistics of soup. This he quarterly reported -to his young friend with as much satisfaction as if the statistics were -of souls saved for heaven; but there was a note of sadness now in the -old doctor's letters which had not been noticeable before. - -The city was a mass of undistinguished humanity. Vane rather liked -this; and found much satisfaction in going to Coney Island and similar -places where the people asserted themselves with frankness and -sincerity. One's fellow-man is always interesting, when not factitious. - -But after a very few weeks of New York, he wearied of it. He could not -bring himself to take so much interest in his business, now that it -was so very successful. The labor did not seem to him so healthy, so -satisfying as of old; it could hardly be termed his daily bread, even -by a stretch of metaphor. Moreover, one's daily bread is got for one -by wholesale in America; machine-raised, by the thousand bushels, in -Minnesota, and brought ready to hand for the million, like the other -raw materials of life. - -Vane was tired of the raw material of life--he felt a want for -something that was not ground out by the wholesale. But the only -finished product he had yet seen was Miss Winifred Thomas. She was a -product of the city--perhaps he ought to go further afield. Wemyss had -once said that people only got the means of living in New York. They -went elsewhere to live. - -And the young man was anxious, above all things, to live, to find in -life what was earnest and genuine: not the mere means, like money, nor -the makeshifts, like fashion. Vane wanted happiness, not pleasure; like -most young men, he felt injured if he did not get it. - -It may have been this craving for humanity that made the city -unendurable to him, or it may have been the heat, which, late in -September, was most intense. Whatever it was, he felt restless and -uneasy in the city, and cast about him where he could best go for -seclusion and fresh air. Some acquaintance suggested Cinerea Lake. -It was at that time crowded with people, which would make seclusion -easy; and it was a "popular summer resort," which, he thought, would -be a novelty to him, coming from Carcassonne and the monasteries of -Monserrat. Moreover, Cinerea was one of the places in America which -people visited solely in search of happiness. - -Cinerea Lake was formerly known as Butternut Pond; it belonged to a -Mr. Sabin; and the village was Sabin's simply. But the pond is really -a lake, and it lies near a spur of the Appalachian Mountains. The -place had originally been marked by a farmhouse only, to which some -popular preacher had betaken himself for the summer months. In an -evil moment he had come back, one autumn, and written a book about -the delights of the hills; the delights that he found in the hills. -In the next year seven-eighths of the ladies in his parish, and their -friends, had settled upon the country, in search, they too, of the -delights of the hills; they occupied the farmhouses within a radius of -several miles, and crocheted. The year after that had witnessed, at -only a few weeks' interval, the foundation and the completion of the -Butternut Grand Hotel. And now the place was beginning to be known to -that world which calls itself _society_, and which the rest of society -calls fashionable. Little of all this was known to Vane, however. He -understood that it was cool and crowded, and thither he accordingly -went. - -Vane had his days of self-gratulation, like another; and it was in -one of them that he left town for his vacation. He felt that soon a -fortune, and a large one, would be assured him. He was an independent -and successful citizen of America, with all his country before him, -and the chances in his favor. He had lately seen something of a friend -or two also in town for the summer; and had had an occasional little -dinner with John or some other man, in the club, or by the sea; Vane -was sociable enough, though not gregarious, and he felt rich in -acquaintances with half a dozen or so. They were most of them still in -the city; and Vane felt a sense of freedom, of adventure, as he left -it, which became stronger every moment as the train flew northward. But -the journey was one of many hours, and it was late in the twilight of -the next afternoon before he alighted at Cinerea Lake--called Cinerea -by the ladies who had looked in the lexicon to christen it anew. - - - - -XX. - - -THE Butternut Grand Hotel was large and white; with a hundred windows, -all of the same size, equidistant, and in four parallel rows. Had any -one of them been unfinished, like the window in Aladdin's tower, it -need not have so remained; with a few hours' work any joiner could have -evened it up with the rest. A huge verandah surrounded the structure, -roofed above the second story; and up and down the painted floor of -this verandah a score of pairs of young ladies promenaded. Young ladies -they were called in the society columns of the summer Sunday papers; -speaking colloquially, one might have called them girls. Vane's black -suit was dusty, and in his travel-stained condition it was embarrassing -to be the object of young feminine eyes; but as most of them stopped -their walk to observe his entrance, there was nothing for it but to -cast his own eyes down, and walk modestly through the line. It was a -worse gantlet than the Calais pier. Vane went to the office to ask for -his room; but it was some minutes before the clerk, who was talking -with another gentleman, could give him his attention. When he did so he -scanned Vane rudely before replying, and at last, as he opened his lips -to answer, two of the young ladies from the piazza rushed in to ask -for their mail, and, pushing Vane slightly aside, engaged the clerk's -attention. "Now, Mr. Hitchcock, you don't mean to tell me you have no -letters for _me_?" said one. The other looked at Vane while she spoke, -as, indeed, did the speaker. - -When the clerk began sorting the heap of letters which had just come in -the coach, Vane acquired the flattering conviction that the mail was -but a pretext, and himself the cause. - -"There are none, indeed, Miss Morse," said the clerk; and the girls -fluttered gaily out. "I'll write you one myself, if you'll wait," added -the clerk jocosely. But the only reply to this was a Parthian glance -from Miss Morse, which embraced Vane in its orbit. The clerk looked -after them with a smile, and then, after meditating a moment, turned to -Vane. - -"Now, what can I do for you, sir?" - -"I believe I engaged a room." - -"What name?" - -"Vane." - -"Three twelve," said the clerk, and turned back to his first -interlocutor, who had been standing silent in the meantime, chewing a -toothpick and regarding the opposite wall. - -Vane's chamber was a long and narrow room shaped like a pigeon-hole in -a desk. A ventilating window was above the door, and a single window -opposite, uncurtained, looking out upon a long, monotonous slope of -mountain, which was clothed shabbily in a wood of short firs. The sides -and roof of the room were of coarse plaster; a red carpet was upon the -floor. Some delay was caused by Vane's ringing for a bath, and still -further delay by the waitress in obtaining the information that he -could not have one unless he gave notice the day before. While Vane -was waiting for all this he heard the door of the next room open, and -the distinctness of the feminine voices bore testimony to the thinness -of the walls. There were seemingly two young ladies there, but their -conversation was interrupted by a gong, which, as one of the voices -informed him, was the gong for supper. A consequent scuffle took place, -and this was only ended by the final bang of the door that announced -the departure of his neighbors. - -Vane followed their example, and entered a long dining-hall in which -two rows of tables, eighteen in each row, were disposed transversely; -there were eighteen seats at every table, many of which were already -occupied. After waiting a minute at the door he was shown to a seat -next a Jewish family and several young men--evidently a sort of omnibus -table, to which the negro waiters, with a nice social discrimination, -ushered solitary males. Possibly for this reason, they were not well -served. The table was covered with little oval dishes of coarse -stoneware containing dip-toast, fried potatoes, and slices of cold -meat. Steaks and omelets were announced in a printed bill of fare, and -tea and coffee. Vane was unable to interest himself in his companions, -and watched the people coming in. Most of the elderly ladies and some -of the young girls wore large solitaire diamonds, and bore down, as if -under full sail, through the broad aisle, with elaborate assumption of -indifference and social dignity. It was evident that, to many of them, -the people who were seated at these tables represented the World. The -men looked more respectable, but even more out of place; and the girls, -of whom many were pretty, came tripping in by twos, with infinite -variety of gait and action. Vane noticed that Miss Morse and her friend -had changed their dresses. They did not look at him. Miss Morse's -friend had a novel in her hand which she read during the meal. - -After supper Vane walked up and down the verandah. Most of the girls -did the same, still in couples. Despite the cool mountain air, many -of them wore low-throated muslin dresses. Vane's quasi-acquaintance, -Miss Morse, was not among them; but about nine in the evening a figure -came out of a side-door in front of him, in a sort of summer evening -ball dress, and stood a moment by the piazza railing, pensively looking -at the stars. As Vane passed by he saw that it was Miss Morse, and he -could not help wondering whether she expected him to speak to her. As -he passed the windows of the large dining-hall brilliantly lighted with -gas, he saw that they were dancing inside. A few instruments were in -one corner, and perhaps half a dozen couples waltzing on the floor. -Some young men were there in evening dress, but not enough to go round, -and many of the girls were dancing with each other. Vane had to admit -that most of them danced very gracefully and well. After a moment, Miss -Morse came in. She had apparently some pretensions, for she sank into -an arm-chair in one corner of the room, and refused to dance. There was -a sort of master of ceremonies in the person of a sallow and thin but -dapper young gentleman who had all the affable address of a popular -lady's salesman, and Vane saw him present several young men to Miss -Morse. All this became at last somewhat tiresome, and, feeling lonely, -Vane went to bed. - -He had almost got to sleep when he was aroused by the voices of his -feminine neighbors. "Well, I think he's perfectly horrid," said one. -"No," said another, "he ain't much of an addition. I told father I must -have two new ball dresses, because I was coming here for the society. I -had to tease him for them for a month, and now, I declare, I might just -as well have stayed in the city all summer. Come and undo this, will -you, please?" - -"Sh!" said the other voice, "how do you know there isn't some one next -door?" A silence followed, interrupted by bursts of stifled laughter. - -"Well, I don't care," said the first voice. "There wasn't any one -there yesterday, anyhow. Did you see how he was dressed? Nothing but a -common, rough suit." - -"Oh, don't you like that? Why, I call that real distinguished." - -"Well, anyhow, I don't see why he couldn't get introduced. I call -it simply rude, Englishman or no Englishman." At this point the -unfortunate stranger seemed finally disposed of, and Vane went to sleep. - - - - -XXI. - - -THERE is one long road at Cinerea Lake, always dusty, with a sidewalk -of planks. The hotel, with the appendant cottages, is on the one -side, and a few old farmhouses, now boarding-houses, with a dozen -little wooden shops, are on the other. Most of the shops sell novels, -sweetmeats, embroidery work, and newspapers. There were not many men -at Cinerea. It is not customary in America for men to join their wives -and children on pleasure excursions. What few men there were seemed -oppressed by the novelty of the position, and sat in chairs upon the -piazza, with their feet upon the railing. They seldom ventured farther -during the day. There was a stock telegraph instrument in the hall of -the hotel, and an enterprising New York broker had an office in an -ante-room. Vane noticed that every one of these gentlemen left their -foot-rests on the verandah shortly after breakfast, and, following them -to the nearest store, he learned that this activity was caused by a -desire to purchase the evening papers of the day before, which arrived, -as a written placard informed him, at 9.45 A.M. Vane himself asked for -a paper, but got no answer from the young woman behind the counter, -while a friend who was sitting with her, working, and eating pieces -of chocolate from a paper bag upon her lap, stopped her embroidery a -moment to stare at him rudely. Suddenly it dawned upon Vane that he -had seen the faces of these two ladies at his hotel. They were sitting -on a little piazza in front of the shop, behind a small counter, but -the shop itself seemed to be a sort of club-room for the ladies of the -place, and these were evidently guests. Vane apologized for his error -with some inward amusement, but his speech was rewarded with a still -blanker stare from the young woman with the chocolate. - -So far, this "popular summer resort" promised more errors than -entertainment. Vane had certainly never felt so lonely before as among -this gay company. Work gives its own companionship, but idleness is -gregarious. The place was full of girls of all styles of behavior and -prettiness. Some were playing tennis, others making up companies for -drives, others starting off for long walks. Vane had pictured the type -of American girlhood as something fragile and delicate, but these had -healthy faces and lithe young figures robed in flannel and untrammelled -by the dressmakers' art. They were bright, quick with their eyes, but -far from ethereal. Vane himself went to walk, and, after following the -road for a mile or so, entered a woody path, which, as a finger-post -assured him, led to Diana's baths. - -He felt much in the mood for a meeting with a heathen goddess, and -entered the forest accordingly. But he found nothing nearer Diana than -Miss Morse and her friend, who were sitting reading with two young -men. The path seemed to vanish where they sat, and Vane made hold to -stop and ask one of the young men the way. They were slow of speech, -and Miss Morse herself replied. She assured him that he was at his -destination, and Vane found himself, in a moment, in conversation with -her. - -Diana's Baths were formed by a small brook trickling over some mossy -rocks and making a few pools in which Diana might possibly have wet her -feet. Vane made this suggestion, which was received with much laughter, -at the end of which he found himself on such a footing of intimacy that -he was being introduced to Miss Morse's companions: "Miss Westerhouse, -may I introduce Mr.---- Mr.----" "Vane," suggested he. "Mr. Vane, -of New York, Miss Morse. Miss Westerhouse, Mr. Vane. Mr. Vane, Mr. -Thomson and Mr. Dibble." The young men nodded rather awkwardly. Miss -Westerhouse made a place on the rock beside her, and Vane sat down -wondering how the situation would be explained, and who had told her -that he came from New York. - -"I met you yesterday on your arrival, did I not?" Miss Morse went on. - -Vane admitted that she had, and remembered the scene with the hotel -clerk. - -"Coming from New York, I fear you will find Cinerea Lake rather dull. -We are after the season, you know." - -He hastened to assure her that he had found the place most attractive. - -"It is getting to be rather too well known now, but it is pretty, -though not so nice as it was. You meet all sorts of people here -already." - -Vane felt duly instructed as to the social position of his companions, -and assented, with much honesty, to her last statement. - -"It is not very gay here, now. We have a hop twice a week." - -"That will be delightful," said Vane with enthusiasm. - -"Do you reside in New York?" Miss Westerhouse broke in. - -"As much as I do anywhere," said Vane. "I have to travel a great deal." -Vane noticed a sudden lack of interest in him after this remark, and -fancied that they set him down for a commercial traveler. "I have only -lived in New York of late years, and then only when I am not----on the -road," he added, as the humorous view of the situation struck him. A -silence followed this remark, and a certain coldness; but Vane, who had -a particularly comfortable place, leaning back on a mossy rock, made no -motion to go. Finally Miss Westerhouse made an effort. - -"Then you are not much acquainted in New York." - -"I have a good many business acquaintances." - -"Oh, I mean your lady friends." - -"I have none," said Vane. - -"Some very pleasant New Yorkers have been here," said Miss Morse, "but -they only stayed a few days. Mrs. Haviland and Miss Thomas----" Vane -could not repress a slight movement. "Do you know them?" said the young -lady with some interest. - -"Miss Winifred Thomas?" - -"This was Miss Baby----" - -"It is the same person," said Vane, with decision. - -"Is she not just too lovely?" broke in again Miss Westerhouse, with -enthusiasm. Vane could not but concur in this sentiment. Miss Morse's -interest in him seemed revived. - -"I suppose we must go back to dinner now," said she. "By the way, we -are going to have a straw-ride this afternoon. Would you not like to -come, Mr. Vane? The gentlemen are getting it up. Mr. Dibble, here, is -chief manager----" - -Vane said he should be delighted, and they rose to go. Picking up -two books and a bonbonnière which lay upon the grass, he followed -Miss Morse. He looked at the books as he went, and uttered a slight -ejaculation. One, to be sure, was _Lucile_, but the other was a volume -of Prosper Mérimée's _Lettres à une Inconnue_. - -On the way back Vane was presented to several other young ladies, and -when he finally entered the hotel piazza, it was in company with a Miss -Parsons, of Brooklyn, who in turn presented him to a Miss Storrs, of -Cleveland, and left them, as she unnecessarily explained, to dress for -dinner. - -Vane was rather ashamed to own to himself that he was displeased at -the acquaintance that seemed to have existed between Miss Thomas and -his late companions. Little as he cared for Miss Thomas, there was -certainly a world-wide difference between her and Miss Morse, Mr. -Thomson and Mr. Dibble; and yet he could not bring himself to admit -that he was snobbish or prejudiced. It was simply that the wealth -and education of these young ladies had outstripped their breeding, -while the young men were still seeking for the first. He pictured to -himself Miss Thomas sitting in flannels at Diana's Baths, and going on -straw-rides with Mr. Dibble, and the idea was distasteful to him. - -It was surely an odd chance that he should travel upon her wake in this -way. Throughout the afternoon he occasionally caught himself wondering -how she would appear in these surroundings. This thing was a mixture of -Arcady and an American female college, with a touch of Vauxhall thrown -in. And it was only six weeks since he had wandered in the moonlight -of the Alhambra; and the harvest was hardly all gathered that had been -ripening about the walls of Carcassonne. Vane wished that he could meet -these people at home--that he could see their life really as it was. -Was this, then, all? It could not be. There must be something more real -behind it. - -Vane could fancy, in the days when he had been in love, himself and -her living in that out-of-the-way corner in France, in that forgotten -nook sheltered on the backward shores of Spain, eddied in the flood -of modern life and civilization, where he had wandered in the pine -woods upon Monserrat. But this place, this painted wooden hotel, this -company, seemed more foreign to him than anything in the Old World. -What was it? What was it that gave the strange character to it all? Was -he, then, such a foreigner that he could not understand it? Was even -his love exotic, that it seemed impossible here? - -The young man gave himself much mental trouble in getting at the -secret of this American life. And, in the last analysis, it seemed -unreal--unreal because it was temporary; because the old was going and -the new had not yet come; because it was like the wooden houses and the -temporary bridges, and the provisional social conventions, and the thin -fashionable veneer of neo-conservatism--it was suffered to remain until -the people found time and resolution to make a change. - - - - -XXII. - - -VANE, however, did not carry his analysis quite so far as this. He -found that it was unreal; there he stopped; the why was too heavy a -burden for him. He was ready and anxious enough to make it real; but -still, all through his life, the substance of life itself had kept -eluding him, and left the shadow in his hand. - -Many of the girls (at Cinerea every woman under thirty is a girl)--many -of the girls were reading novels, American summer stories, written by -girls about other girls, and revelling in the summer life of girls. -Vane borrowed some of these and read them. They were so prettily -written, so charming, so awfully true, he was told; and he liked not -to confess that they gave him but a little passing amusement, which -was followed by much mental depression. It was all true and real, -then? Was Vane himself something of a prig? John Haviland did not -think so. But these stories seemed to him more immoral, or at all -events, more corrupting, than many a French romance ending in adultery. -There was in them an ignorance of all that is highest in life, a -calm, self-satisfied acceptance of a petty standard. The strength of -crime implies the strength of virtue, but the negation of both is -hopelessness. In defence of Vane, it might be said that he was really -not in the mood for pleasure at this time. - -The straw-ride was unanimously declared to be a great success. Miss -Morse brought her volume of Mérimée along and read it to her young man -in the woods. Her young man for the afternoon, that is; she had no -special young man. The chaperone was the beautiful Mrs. Miles Breeze, -of Baltimore; she arrived suddenly, in the nick of time to go; and Vane -could see that Miss Morse was much elated at being under the wing of -so real a social personage. Ned Eddy was with her. When the company -paired off and scattered in the woods, Vane fell to the lot of a Miss -Gibbs, of Philadelphia, a still newer acquaintance to whom Miss Storrs -had introduced him. Miss Gibbs had a volume of Rossetti's poems with -her, and Vane read to her the "Last Confession" under the pine trees. -For many a foreigner, it would have been his first. But the hearts of -American young men are (very properly) bound in triple brass. Miss -Gibbs also knew Miss Thomas. She seemed relieved when she gathered from -Vane that Miss Storrs was an acquaintance of a few hours, and Misses -Morse and Westerhouse of the morning only. Evidently, thought Vane, -there were distinctions if not differences. Miss Gibbs combined much -good-breeding with her fascinations; and a dangerous _savoir faire_. - -The next day he went to walk with a dark-haired girl in the morning, -and to drive with a yellow-haired widow in the afternoon. In the -evening he found himself drifting on the lake in a boat with Miss -Gibbs. Any one of these beauties would have been termed, by a -Frenchman, adorable; and probably he would have ventured to adore. -Other boats with similar couples were scattered over the lake, no -one too near another. As far as Vane could judge, it seemed to be -considered the proper thing for every young man to simulate the -deepest love for his companion of the hour. It was a sort of private -theatrical, with the out-door night for a stage; a midsummer night's -dream, of which the theme was _let's pretend we're lovers_. He was here -alone with Miss Gibbs under circumstances which in France would have -compelled him to marry her; and it was doubtful whether she would even -remember him as an acquaintance, in the city, a few weeks later. - -He was glad to admit that there was something very creditable in the -fact that the thing was possible. Still this trifling, this mild but -continuous drugging of the affections, must have its demoralizing -effect. It was part result and part cause of that same unreality. The -only real thing about the hotel was the stock-ticker; and even there, -the stock that it registered was water. It was all very amusing. Yet -the fancy continually recurred of Miss Thomas, in this situation, -though he, of all men, would have had no right to be displeased; for -had she not definitely told him he had none? Still, it was hard to -divest himself of a certain sense of property in her; he had mentally -appropriated her for so long. - -He was plashing carelessly with his oars, and watching the sheen of -moonlight on the outline of his companion's fair face, suffering -himself for a moment to wonder how the same light would have fallen in -Winifred's blue eyes, when Miss Gibbs again spoke of her. - -"I had a letter from your friend Miss Thomas, to-day," said she. The -deuce she had! thought Vane; so she corresponds with Miss Gibbs, does -she? Vane was disgusted with himself for thinking so much about the -girl, and here he was caught thinking of her again. - -He pulled a few nervous strokes. How could he see the letter without -exciting Miss Gibbs' curiosity? He managed it, finally, and read the -letter. He was secretly relieved to find that the note was quite formal -and was simply to tell Miss Gibbs that she need not forward a piece of -embroidery which had been left behind. More surprising was the news -that Miss Thomas was coming back. Vane made himself doubly attentive -to Miss Gibbs; and as each man walked back with his lady, and said to -her a long good night on the hotel piazza, implying all the sorrow of -a Romeo in parting from a Juliet, Vane was secretly wondering what the -deuce he was to do. "What the deuce!" was again the phrase he mentally -used. He did not wish to see the girl again--that was certain enough; -but it was decidedly undignified to run away. There was really a sort -of fatality in their meeting. - -But the best way to treat a fatality is to make nothing of it. Thus -treated, it is seldom fatal. Then he was rather curious to see how Miss -Thomas would behave among these Dibbles and these Westerhouses. After -all, she too was an American; a little more sophisticated, a little -better endowed by nature; but she, too, made a toy of love, and actors -in private theatricals of her more "exciting" friends. "Exciting" was -a word that Vane had heard Miss Westerhouse apply to Mr. Dibble. Vane -had caught a little of the Parisian's contempt for flirting with young -girls. In a flirtation with married women, he thought, there were at -least possibilities; and the flirtations were not so utterly silly. -But marriage was far too serious an affair to be made fun of. At this -period Vane affected to himself an extreme cynicism. Intercourse with -Cinerea girls had corrupted him. They had given him their own levity. -At another time, he would have deplored the vulgarization of a lofty -sentiment; but since the past June he had been in a flippant mood -himself. The American cue was to make game of everything in fun, and -to make a hazard of life in earnest. He felt that he was becoming -Americanized. - -Feminine companionship was certainly corrupting to earnestness, if -not to morals. By the end of this week he felt cloyed with too much -trifle. He sighed for a man and a cigar, for a seat in a club, for a -glass of brandy, for anything else masculine, for a little of man's -plain language and strong thinking. Yet these girls were no fools: they -read Prosper Mérimée's Letters, for example. They were emancipated -enough. But they also read Lucile. He understood why women were not -let into ancient religions, Freemasonry and the Egyptian mysteries. -They belittled the imagination. _Per contra_, they were essential to -the Eleusinian. Their only truly great rôle was the Mœnad. And yet, he -thought, these sentiments of his would have shocked these girls. - -Vane's thoughts came and went nervously. He was driving in a buggy -alone, or, at least, only Miss Morse was with him. He was ashamed of -himself; he was ashamed of his thinking; he was ashamed, thinking as -he did, of his inconsistency in driving with Miss Morse in a buggy. -_Postiche, postiche_, it was all _postiche_, or was it frankness? Was -it the troubled dream, the low beginning of the new conditions? Was -his disapproval a bit of feudal prejudice? Vane was troubled, excited, -disgusted, confused. Miss Morse noticed all this, but thought he was in -love with her. - -The only green spots in the man's memory were Rennes, and Monserrat, -and Carcassonne; yes, and the littered desk in the down-town office in -New York--the scene of his only labors and his one success. And that -success was no longer necessary; it no longer profited any one but -himself. Vane had never formulated his position with such precision -before. The last person of his own family was dead; he had claims upon -no one, no one had any claim upon him; he had no further ambitions upon -Mammon. Given this problem, what solution could the world offer--the -New York world, that is? Somebody says life is made up of labor, -art, love, and worship. New York had given him labor, which he had -performed. And of the others? Had it given him love, even? Was he a -barbarian, better fitted for a struggle with crude nature than New -York, not up to the refinements of modern civilization? Should he -leave these places? Now, that day Miss Thomas was to come, and he must -decide. He thirsted for happiness; how was he best to find it? These -thoughts, perhaps, seemed selfish, cold-blooded, practical, but there -was a sadness in them for Vane. - -So thinking, as he drove his buggy along the road, they passed Miss -Thomas, walking gracefully, and the rich, slow color burned through -her face and fell away at her temples as she bowed. Vane drove on the -faster, flicking his horse with the whip, and considered what he would -do now that she had returned. - -He would treat her like Miss Westerhouse and Miss Gibbs of -Philadelphia. He would not have his own movements disturbed by her -coming and going. He would stay his intended fortnight out and then go. - - - - -XXIII. - - -THERE was a mountain party that afternoon, organized by Mr. Dibble. -Vane supposed that Miss Thomas would be of the number, and himself -stayed away, not caring to meet her. But when he came back, after a -long walk, she was sitting on the piazza with Mrs. Haviland. Vane -passed by, raising his hat. She looked at him almost wistfully, not -blushing this time, but very pale. When he came down from his room, -before tea, he went up and spoke to her. - -"You have not gone to the picnic, Miss Thomas!" - -She looked up for a moment at him earnestly; then, dropping her eyes, -spoke gravely and rather coldly. - -"I do not go on mountain parties, Mr. Vane." - -"At Cinerea Lake?" - -"At Cinerea Lake or elsewhere." - -"Really, I had flattered myself that I had been enjoying your own -diversions." - -Miss Thomas made no answer whatever to this. Then, after some -minutes--"Why did you not answer my letter?" - -"I did not know it required an answer." - -"I value your friendship very highly. It made me very unhappy." - -"Apparently you were successful in concealing your unhappiness from -your friend Miss Gibbs. I did not know it was my friendship you cared -for." - -"I am in the habit of concealing most things from Miss Gibbs. Have I -ever given you reason to suppose I cared for anything _else_ than your -friendship?" - -"You have lost little of your old skill," said Vane, grimly. "I cannot -conceive, clever as you still are, that you should have been, for a -year, so slow of comprehension. You would rather I should think you a -flirt than maladroit." - -"You think me so?" Miss Thomas spoke as if she were going to cry. Vane -looked at her. - -"I beg your pardon," said he, simply, and walked away. Miss Thomas went -on with her sewing, bending her head over the work. Truly, thought -Vane, it was not a very manly thing in him taunting her that he had -failed to make her love him. But had he honestly tried? he questioned -himself, as he walked up and down the piazza that evening. Had he not -rather put the thing on a basis of flirtation from the beginning? - -Bah! he was going back to his old innocence. He had definitely given -her to understand that he had loved her, and she had forced him to -the utmost boundary of the explicit, and in his foolish magnanimity -had made a fool of him. He had failed to make her love him; no one -could make her love until she chose, for worldly reasons of her own, -to try. He stopped his walk when next he passed by the place where she -was sitting. "You do not seem to have your old attention," he said, -brutally. He had a way of saying petty things when with her, and was -conscious of it. - -"Why do you think I care for attention?" said she, simply. - -"You cared for mine----" - -"You admit it?" - -----"Like that of any masculine unit." - -"I used to respect you, Mr. Vane. Pray do not console me for the loss -of your friendship by showing me how worthless it is." - -"You seem to have made that friendship of mine for you a matter of -common knowledge among the people in this place." - -"I have never spoken of you to any one since you left, last June." - -There was a ring of truth in her words, but Vane thought of Miss Gibbs -and her trivial talk. He sat down in the chair in front of her. - -There was nothing said between them for a long time. - -"You told me then that you had forgiven me. I thought it was so -noble in you! for I had acted very wrongly." Miss Thomas was -rocking nervously in her chair; she had a handkerchief in her hand; -occasionally in the dark, she touched it to her eyes. Vane took hold of -the end of the handkerchief, as it drooped from her hand. "I told you -then that I would forgive you--and it was true," he said. - -"Then give me your friendship back. I am so lonely--without it," she -added in low tones. Vane still held the handkerchief, and moved it -slowly with the rocking, alternately drawing it forward and letting it -back; a subtle feminine influence seemed to be in the soft cambric, and -thrilled warm in his hand. - -Vane felt very kindly toward her as he went to sleep that night. After -all, she was true, or meant to be, at least. It was not her fault, but -his, that she had not cared to be his wife. And it seemed to him that -he cared more for his opinion of her than for hers of him. He valued -his faith in her more than his hope of winning her. - -Again, he doubted if he was in love with her; he doubted if he ever had -been; but he still felt for her a sort of tender pity. Poor, lonely, -little maiden; with all her beauty she was but a child as yet; and he -had expected from her the knowledge and discretion of a woman of the -world. Yes, surely, she was different from the other girls in this -place. He was glad that his momentary love had calmed and sweetened -into friendship. - -Vane himself asked her to walk with him the next evening, and they went -at sunset through the grave mountain gorges. They were both very quiet; -the man had almost nothing to say. They knew one another too well for -ordinary conversation. - -"Why are you so silent?" said she. "You never used to be so." - -"Am I silent? I do not know why. I suppose I make up for having nothing -to say when I am with you by thinking of you so much when I am away. -There is so much to be thought, and so little to be said." - -"I am glad that you still think of me." - -Vane looked at her dense black hair, and the soft shine of moisture in -her upturned eyes. "The thoughts that I cannot say are so much stronger -than the things I can, that they overpower the others, and I can say -nothing," he said. - -"Do you know, I often have imaginary conversations with you?" - -"Tell me some of them." - -"I cannot. I should say too much if I said anything." - -"Remember our compact, to be only friends," said Vane, gravely. "Do not -speak as if you were more than a friend, or I shall think you less." - -"I do remember our compact. That is why I do not say them." - -The words sounded strangely, but Vane knew she was sincere when -she uttered them. When she pressed his hand that night at parting, -she still managed to let Vane know that he was to put no false -interpretation on her friendliness. She was a woman, and she did not -know herself, he thought; but she was not a girl, and she knew him. - -A day or two after this they were drifting under the moonlight on the -lake. Her beauty had never seemed so marvellous to Vane as on that -evening; the soft darkness of her hair, and shadowed light of her blue -eyes, like the light of the night sky with the moon at the zenith. -Her head was drooping slightly, and one round white arm, bared to the -elbow, was trailing with a tender ripple in the water. - -"Are you never going to marry, friend of mine?" said Vane, dropping his -oars to look at her. - -"Yes," said she, "I shall marry when one man asks me." - -"Who is he?" - -"I have never met him," she muttered, dreamily. "I have never met but -one man like him." - -Vane took his oar again. "She meant me to think she meant me," he -thought, and rowed vigorously. She seemed unconscious of the change -of motion, and her hand, still trailing in the water, wet her white -sleeve. Vane stopped rowing and seated himself beside her. "You are -wetting your arm," said he, lifting her hand from the water. She shall -love me, he thought to himself, as he looked at her. A moment later he -had taken her hand in his, and pushing the sleeve back from the arm -kissed it passionately. The woman made no sign for a moment or two; -then, as the man still held her hand, she came to herself with a little -shudder. "O don't, Mr. Vane, pray don't--oh, I ought not to have let -you do it--oh, pray go back----." Vane left her hand and looked at her -steadfastly. "Oh, I ought not to have spoken so," she went on, with a -little moan, "but I pitied you so----. O Mr. Vane, I was so sorry for -you, that I forgot; and you were looking at me, and you seemed to care -so much----" - -"You told me of imaginary conversations you sometimes had with me," -said Vane. "Cannot you tell me what they were?" - -"Oh, I ought not to tell you," said she, breathlessly. "Can we not go -home? Will you not row me back?" - -Vane slowly resumed his seat. "We each now owe the other forgiveness," -said he. "If you would try to love me, I think I would wait." The -girl in front of him shuddered again, and bent her head away, till he -saw where her hair was pencilled into the ivory neck; then she spoke, -slowly and simply. "I have sometimes fancied that I could learn to care -for you, Mr. Vane--not now, not now--after a great many years, perhaps." - -Vane was silent for some minutes. Then, as they neared the shore, he -spoke in a clear undertone. "Will you promise to tell me, if you ever -care for any one else--if I wait, Miss Thomas?" - -She bowed her head still lower, and Vane took her hand again and held -it for a moment. He left in it the old lace handkerchief, still burned -at the edges. "When you send it back to me, I shall know what it -means," he said, and kissed it. "But while you still keep it, I shall -hope." - -"Oh, I am wrong in saying this," she sighed. "I may never care for you. -And yet in certain ways I care for you so much. It seems sometimes to -me that I have no heart. I don't think I am worthy of you." She took -the handkerchief and put it in her pocket. - - - - -XXIV. - - -THEY walked back together. Vane felt a year removed from the happenings -of the last week, from Miss Morse, from all the others. It seemed as -if the painted hotel were to vanish, like a stage-setting, and he were -back in Carcassonne or Monserrat, back with her. All the genuine life -that he had missed so long was his: the earnestness, the simplicity of -olden times. Now no longer he asked himself what there was in America -for him to do. - -In all this there was nothing sentimental; it was natural, real, -radical. That he ever could have doubted that he was in love! - -What he felt for Winifred was passion, not sentiment, and he gloried -in it; it was because she was a woman, after all, and he a man, and he -knew now that he should win her. - -There was a certain splendid excitement about Vane's life that autumn. -It was all so real to him now. The solution had come of itself. He -was not yet her lover, formally accepted, but he felt that he was her -lover in fact and truth. He was continually with her; following her -to Newport when she went there for a month, late in October. She not -only suffered him to be with her; she suffered him (as a woman may, -impalpably) to love her; even, now and then, to show his love for her, -as when he took her hand, or walked with her in autumn evenings by the -sea. Now and then she would repulse him, telling him that he must not -be confident of her; that it was only to be after many years; but her -repulses grew fainter and less frequent. It did not, even then, seem to -Vane as if he were teaching her to love; she was too sympathetic; she -felt too quickly and too closely every impulse of his own; his passion -was too readily reflected in the flush or paleness of her face. Rather -was she herself the mistress, Vane the scholar. Nothing he said or -sighed seemed to take her by surprise, to be unappreciated by her. He -augured well from this. - -When a woman admits that she may come to like a man in time, she means -that she already loves him, but is not quite ready for marriage. It -was a more dangerous footing, their intimacy on these terms, than if -their troth had been fairly plighted. The man sought persistently to -win new concessions, to force further confessions; the woman, having -made the one admission, could but half resist. It brought about a new -declaration of his passion every day; pale, she listened to the torrent -of his words, now faintly chiding, now looking vacantly out to sea. The -worn voices of the ocean gave might and earnestness to his pleading, -and filled, with its own grave majesty, his broken pauses. Her hand -would grow cold as it lay between his own, and she sat silent; until, -with a start of self-reproach, she would regain her knowledge of the -present and make him lead her back among the streets and houses. - -Vane went occasionally, for a few days, to the city, to look after -the affairs of his bank. The closing of his contract with Welsh, who -finally paid to the firm nearly a million, and the reinvestment of this -money, took much time. Vane had never been a better man of business -than when he decided on these matters, thinking, with a thrill in his -strong body, of the meeting, next day, and the long afternoon to be -passed on the shore with the woman that he loved. Some days Vane would -not go near her; he was still careful not to incur comment; he could -control himself. But hardly any one was left in Newport now, and their -walks far out upon the cliffs had generally escaped the notice of the -world. - - - - -XXV. - - -SHE came back to the city in November, but in the last of the month -again Vane persuaded her to go to Newport and spend a week when he -could be there all the time. She had an old aunt there at whose house -she visited; Vane had his permanent lodgings; and this was before the -time when many people stayed there through the winter. Vane had urged -her to let him meet her at the southern extremity of the island, where -the long ledges of rock run out to the reef; but sometimes she would -bid him walk thither with her, and would even seem to like to have -the notice of the town. They had given up their reading by this time, -and their small talk had long since ceased. Early in the autumn they -had begun with the Vita Nuova; but even Dante's words had seemed weak -to him, and after a few days the books had been thrown aside. She had -not urged him to go on with them. Every day, rain or storm, this late -week in autumn, they would skirt the cliffs, by the gardens with a few -geraniums or pansies still drooping in the trim parterres, and go far -out along the southern coves and beaches, where the full pulse of the -Atlantic rolled in from the Indies. Vane had tried every day to win -the final word; but all his passion had not done more than force her -to seek refuge in silence. This last day she had opened her lips once -or twice to speak, after a long pause, and then pressed them again -together. Vane always walked a yard or two from her side, and looked -at her fairly when he spoke. She would not sit down with him that day; -so they went on, mile after mile, along a still, gray sea. The sky was -cloudy, the waters had an oily look; and the waves were convex and -smooth until they broke, creaming about the sharp rocks. Vane made -another trial, just before they left the ocean to turn inland. She -seemed to feel that she ought to speak, then, but yet could only look -at him with her large blue eyes, the pupils slightly dilated. At last, -just as she was leaving him, "Come to see me, in a month, in New York," -she said. - -Vane went back that night and kept himself very busy. He heard little -from Miss Thomas during the time except that she had not returned from -Newport. She would never write to him since the June last past, though -he had often begged her to do so. On the afternoon before Christmas -Eve, at five o'clock, he called at her house. The room was just as -he remembered it the year before--if anything, a little more shabby. -She was standing alone as if she expected him. She was dressed in a -gown that he remembered, and looked younger and more like her old self -than she had seemed at Newport. She was smiling as he entered, but -though the smile did not enter her eyes, they were not deep. She held -something in her hand, which, as Vane approached, she extended to him. -"I want to give you back your handkerchief," she said. "I have felt -that I ought to for a long time. I wanted to do so at Newport, but I -could not bring myself to do it then." - -Vane stopped in his walk to look at her. "You mean that you love some -one else?" - -Miss Thomas bent her head a hair's breadth. - -"Yes," said she, simply. - -"Who is it?" - -"Mr. Ten Eyck." - -"Are you engaged to him?" - -"No." - -"Have you told him?" - -"No." - -"When are you going to tell him?" - -"In a day or two." - -Vane gave a heavy sigh. Miss Thomas sank in a chair, looking at the -fire, the handkerchief still in her hand. - -"I thank you for telling me first," said Vane. He turned to go. - -"You have forgotten your handkerchief," said she. Vane went back to get -it, avoiding the touch of her hand. Then he turned again, and the outer -door closed behind him, Miss Thomas still looking at the fire. It was a -rainy night and there had been snow previously. As Vane crossed Fifth -Avenue he threw the handkerchief into a pool of mire. - -He went to his lodgings to shave and dress for dinner. His hand -trembled, and it seemed to him that he was very angry. He took dinner -at his club, and smoked a cigar afterward with a friend, and drank a -bottle of Burgundy. - -"What has become of Ten Eyck this last month?" asked Vane, carelessly, -in the course of the evening. - -"He's been at Newport lately," said the other. "He's just got back." - -Vane went to bed rather early and slept heavily. It was unusual for -him to take so much wine. But he did not dream of Miss Thomas. In the -morning he felt that he had got over it, and he walked down-town to -his office. It was a clear winter's day, sharp and bright. They were -closing up the banking accounts for the year, and he worked hard all -the morning. He might now call himself very rich. He was an infinitely -better match than Ten Eyck. She must have loved him all along--from -the very beginning, thought he. He was very indignant with her. But -in the afternoon, even this feeling seemed to grow less strong. She -was a woman, after all. He could not blame her. He had been angry last -night, but now he felt that he could understand her. He almost liked -her the better for it. She had been true to herself and her first -love. He might have wished the same thing himself. Vane almost felt a -pride in his discovery of her nature. He had called her a woman from -the beginning. It was the fashion to decry American girls. She was -different from a girl. She was a true woman--a woman like Cleopatra or -like Helen. Had he first won her, she would have been true to him. He -argued savagely with himself, defending her. - -He worked rapidly, and by noon the accounts were done. It was Christmas -Eve. Toward evening the sky became gray, with flakes of snow in the -air. Vane walked up to Central Park, and returned to dress for dinner. -Where was he to dine? The club was the best place to meet people. His -lodgings were dark, and he had some difficulty in finding a match; then -he dropped one of his shirt studs on the floor and had to grope for it. -Another one broke, and he threw open the drawer of his shaving-stand, -impatiently, to find one to replace it. Lying in the drawer was an old -revolver he had brought back from Minnesota two years before. He took -it out, placed the muzzle at his chest, and drew the trigger. As he -fell on the floor, he turned once over upon his side, holding up his -hands before his eyes. - - * * * * * - -So John ended his story. Of course he told it much less elaborately, -that evening in the club, than I have written it here. I suppose I -have told it more as if I were a novelist, trying to write a story. -John gave the facts briefly; but he described Vane's character pretty -carefully, even to his thoughts, as he had known the man so intimately. -Most of these descriptions I have tried to reproduce. And he ended -the story as I have ended it, even to the very words. It was a story -six years old when he told it to us; the man was forgotten, and the -girl was married. His suicide was at first ascribed to financial -difficulties, and the excitement soon subsided when his banking -accounts were shown to be correct. - -I do not remember that there was very much said when John got through. -It was very late at night; most of the men were sleepy and we all had -to be down-town early in the morning. There was, indeed, a silence for -some time. - -Finally the Major drew a long breath. "Well," said he, "my opinion -remains the same." - -"And mine." "And mine," chimed in voices. - -"The man was a fool," said Schuyler, simply. - -"It was cowardly to shoot himself," said Daisy Blake. - -"And to shoot himself for a girl!" cried Schuyler. "Just think what a -fellow may do with fifty thousand a year!" - -"She was a woman," said John. - -"Was she a woman? that is just the question," said the Major. - -"The question," said another man, who had not yet spoken, "is whether -he really loved Baby Thomas--or the English girl, after all." This was -a new view of the case; and a moment's silence followed. - -"No man, to see Mrs. Malgam now, would think a fellow had shot himself -for her," said another. - -"How does she come to be Mrs. Malgam?" - -"Oh, Malgam is her second husband," said Blake. "She has grown -tremendously fat." - -"Well, good-night," said the Major, rising. - -"Speaking of fifty thousand a year, how much did Vane really leave?" -said Schuyler to John. - -"A million and a half, I believe." - -"Whew!" said Schuyler; "I had no idea of that." - -"The granger roads dropped half a point, when his death was known," -said the Major, putting on his coat. - - THE END. - - - - -STORIES by AMERICAN AUTHORS. - -Bound in Cloth, 50 cents per Volume. - -"The American short story has a distinct artistic quality. It has -the directness of narrative and careful detail of the best French -novelettes, with an added flexibility that is peculiar to itself. It -has humor, too. Each one of the tales is a masterpiece, and, taken -together, they afford delightful entertainment for leisure half hours. -All may be read more than once."--_Boston Traveler._ - -_THE FIRST VOLUME CONTAINS_: - - =Who Was She?= By BAYARD TAYLOR. - =The Documents in the Case.= By BRANDER MATTHEWS and H. C. BUNNER. - =One of the Thirty Pieces.= By W. H. BISHOP. - =Balacchi Brothers.= By REBECCA HARDING DAVIS. - =An Operation in Money.= By ALBERT WEBSTER. - -_THE SECOND VOLUME CONTAINS_: - - =The Transferred Ghost.= By FRANK R. STOCKTON. - =A Martyr to Science.= By MARY PUTNAM-JACOBI, M.D. - =Mrs. Knollys.= By the Author of "Guerndale." - =A Dinner-Party.= By JOHN EDDY. - =The Mount of Sorrow.= By HARRIETT PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. - =Sister Silvia.= By MARY AGNES TINCKER. - -_THE THIRD VOLUME CONTAINS_: - - =The Spider's Eye.= By LUCRETIA P. HALE. - =A Story of the Latin Quarter.= By Mrs. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. - =Two Purse Companions.= By GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. - =Poor Ogla-Moga.= By DAVID D. LLOYD. - =A Memorable Murder.= By CELIA THAXTER. - =Venetian Glass.= By BRANDER MATTHEWS. - -_THE FOURTH VOLUME CONTAINS_: - - =Miss Grief.= By CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. - =Love in Old Cloathes.= By H. C. BUNNER. - =Two Buckets in a Well.= By N. P. WILLIS. - =Friend Barton's Concern.= By MARY HALLOCK FOOTE. - =An Inspired Lobbyist.= By J. W. DE FOREST. - =Lost in the Fog.= By NOAH BROOKS. - -In Future Volumes the following writers, besides many others, will be -represented: - -HENRY JAMES, EDWARD BELLAMY, FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN, F. D. MILLET, E. -P. MITCHELL, Mrs. LINA REDWOOD FAIRFAX, The Author of "The Village -Convict," JAMES T. MCKAY, Miss VIRGINIA W. JOHNSON, Mrs. L. W. 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S. of Dale</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Crime of Henry Vane</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>A Study with a Moral</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: J. S. of Dale</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 14, 2022 [eBook #67164]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRIME OF HENRY VANE ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide"> -<img src="images/i_cover.jpg" width="450" alt="Cover" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="ph2">THE CRIME OF</p> - -<p class="ph1">HENRY VANE</p> - -<p class="ph3 bgap">A STUDY WITH A MORAL</p> - -<p class="ph3 bgap"><span class="smcap">By J. S. of Dale</span></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Author of “Guerndale”</i></p> - -<p class="ph4 bgap">NEW YORK</p> -<p class="ph3">CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</p> -<p class="ph4">1884</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center noindent"><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1884,<br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">By</span> CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.</p> - -<p class="center bgap noindent">Press of J. J. Little & Co.,<br /> -<br /> -Nos. 10 to 20 Astor Place, New York.</p></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h1><span class="small">THE</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Crime of Henry Vane</span>.</h1> -</div> - -<p>“——Make a fool of yourself, like Vane.”</p> - -<p>“I am not so sure that is fair to Vane,” said -John; “no one can go through what he did, -and keep perfectly sound.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll leave it to the crowd,” said the Major; -“what say you, boys?”</p> - -<p>All were unanimous. There was no excuse -for a crime like Vane’s. Evidently they all -knew Vane. He was damned without one dissenting -voice.</p> - -<p>“Who was Vane?” said I, “and what did -he do? Which commandment did he break? -He must have made merry with them all—or, -rather, have kept them all to get such a judgment -in this club.”</p> - -<p>A babel of voices arose. All these men -were intimate friends; and they were sitting -in one of the small smoking-rooms of the Columbian -Club in New York. John had just engaged -himself to be married, and we had given -him a dinner; or, as Pel Schuyler put it, we -were “recording his mortgage.” Schuyler was -a real-estate broker.</p> - -<p>“Now, look here,” said John, “how many of -you fellows know Vane personally?”</p> - -<p>No one, apparently. There was a moment’s -silence. Then the Major spoke up. “Bah!” -said he, “I have heard the story these ten -years.” “So have I!” chimed in several -others. “My brother knew Vane in Paris,” -said Pel. “I had it from Mrs. Malgam herself,” -simpered Daisy Blake, fatuously.</p> - -<p>“Well, at least, I know nothing of it,” I said; -“tell it for my benefit, John.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” cried they, “let’s hear the correct -and only version according to John.”</p> - -<p>It was that critical moment in a dinner, when -the fireworks of champagne have sputtered -out, and the burgundy invites to somnolence. -All had lit their cigars, and felt more like -listening than talking. John did not smoke.</p> - -<p>“I will,” said he. “At that time, I was his -best—I may say, his only friend.”</p> - -<p>“And I say, still,” said the Major, “he -acted like a fool and criminally. There can be -no excuse for such conduct.”</p> - -<p>John shrugged his shoulders and began. Of -course, I do not mean that he told the whole story -just as I have written it. He related the bare -facts, with little comment and without conversations. -Whether you condemned the man or -excused him, John thought, his story might be -understood, even if his folly were not forgiven. -The crowd at the club did neither; and, perhaps, -their judgment is the judgment of the -world; and the world is probably right. But -we may learn from folly; it is sometimes more -suggestive than common sense. There is the -ordinary success and there is the exceptional -failure; that is pleasanter, but this is more -instructive. Extreme cases fix the law.</p> - -<p>The world is probably right; and, to those -of us who are healthily adapted to our environment, -the world is enough. Blessed are -they who are fitted, for they shall survive. The -world is enough; but the poet sang, love is -enough. Shall we say, love is surplusage? -The world is always right; and how virtuously -the healthy world reproves what is morbid! -How all the world unites in condemning him -who is not fully content with itself! For such -an one it cannot even spare its pity. There -is a kind of personal animus in its contempt.</p> - -<p>Let us hasten to join our little voices to -swell the universal song. So John told the -story—plainly and coldly, the more adversely -for the lingering doubt; so we tell the story, -and the doubt lessens as we state the facts, and -quite vanishes as we reach the end. It is -the story of a common crime, and the criminal -is no friend of ours, as he was of John’s. -Moreover, Schuyler called the criminal a -fool.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">I</span>N April, 1873, Henry Vane was sitting on -the <i>perron</i> of a small summer house in Brittany, -poking the pebbles in the driveway with -his cane. He had been there for half an hour, -and there was nothing in his appearance and -attitude to indicate that he would not be there -for half an hour more. There was one red -pebble, in particular, which he had an especial -desire to prod out from among the others, -which were gray. But it was round and slippery, -and slid about the ferruled end of his -cane. After poking it some time, he desisted -and held the cane in his hands in front of his -knees, which, as the next step of the porch was -not much lower, were as high as his chin. “C’en -est fait de moi,” he muttered.</p> - -<p>Henry Vane, though a New Yorker, had been -brought up in France, and in the French language -his thoughts came most readily. He -had just seen, for the last time, an old friend -of his—a girl, whom he had known in infancy, -in childhood, in maidenhood; and whom it -seemed incredible, impossible, intolerable, that -he should know no more. It was upon the -piazza of her uncle’s house that he was sitting; -and she was to leave the next day for -Switzerland.</p> - -<p>He was of age that day, and was “his own -man now.” “And hers,” he thought, bitterly. -She did not love him, however; and, -at his request, had just told him so.</p> - -<p>“Décidément, c’en est fait de moi,” he muttered -again, and gave the pebble a vicious -dig, which sent it flying into an acacia bush -that stood in a green tub by the side of the -driveway.</p> - -<p>He was twenty-one that day, and had come -into his fortune. His fortune was not much—four -thousand a year, left him by his grandmother -and invested in government bonds. -Still, twenty thousand francs made him distinctly -a <i>rentier</i>; and twenty thousand francs -seemed a good deal, shared with the girl he -loved. But it seemed very little for him -alone; genteel poverty in fact. He certainly -could neither yacht nor race. Travelling—except -<i>en étudiant</i>—was equally out of the question.</p> - -<p>Vane was a flippant young fellow, with a -French education; fond of the world, of which, -as he then thought, he knew much. Yet the -<i>Figaro</i> and the Bois de Boulogne and the -<i>Palais-Royal</i>, or even the <i>Français</i>, did not -seem to satisfy him, that day. And all for a -little “Mees Anglaise!” How his friends -would laugh at him! He was very young—they -would say; very young for a <i>grande passion</i>. -And then they would laugh again. But -Vane felt sure that he should never get over it.</p> - -<p>What the deuce did fellows do in his position? -He felt a wild desire for adventure and -excitement; but excitement and adventure -were expensive; unless there happened to be -a war, and you went officially. But he had not -many illusions of romance in war. He knew -men who had been at Woerth and Gravelotte. -Then there was travel. But this, also, was -expensive. Old Prunier, the Professor, had -made an expedition through Soudan the year -before, and it had cost him eight hundred -thousand francs. Moreover, you had to be -up on rocks and beetles and things, to make -your trip of any use to the world. And Vane -had not yet given up all idea of being of use in -the world. Besides, even Prunier’s expedition -had not ended in much, except a row with the -Portuguese missionaries on the subject of the -slave trade. These Christian slavers had met -Prunier’s remonstrances with the plausible argument -that it was better for the negroes to -be slaves in a Christian country, and save their -souls, than free on earth and damned when -they died. Prunier had consequently reported -a crying need for a better article of missionary -in Central Africa. But Vane could not go -as a missionary. He felt that his confidence -in Providence, at that moment, was not hardy -enough to bear transplanting into the native -South African mind, through the medium of -a Turanian dialect.</p> - -<p>He might seek the land of his nativity, and -make his four thousand a year, eight thousand. -His father’s business, for the moment, lay in -Bellefontaine. He did not in the least know -where Bellefontaine was, but the name had a -civilized sound. And she was going to Switzerland.</p> - -<p>Vane must have clenched his hands at this -point; for he felt a decided pricking in his left -forefinger. And he observed several thorns -on the stem of the rose she had given him. -For she had given him a rose. That much -favor had been shown him. He got into his -mother’s little phaeton and drove home—with -his rose. So far, his investments in life had -not been successful. The account with fortune -might read somewhat like this—Debtor, an English -girl: to ten years’ love and an indefinite -amount of devotion and sentiment. Creditor, -by the English girl: one rose (with thorns). -That is, if he had put the Dr. and Cr. sides -right. He never could remember which was -which. At all events, the returns on his investment -were not large. And he, with his -uncertainty about debtor and creditor, to think -of competing with the practical Yankee of -Bellefontaine! No; he would leave his four -thousand a year where it was—a somewhat insignificant -part of the national debt. Meantime, -what would become of him? What -should he do? He felt an idle outsider’s -curiosity to know what the deuce he <i>would</i> do.</p> - -<p>Of one thing he felt certain, his orbit in -life would be highly eccentric. He had no -<i>raison d’être</i>; and it is difficult to predict the -direction taken by a body without <i>raison -d’être</i>. The curve of such a comet has no -equation. He could no longer view life with -gravity; and it is quite impossible to calculate -the orbit of a body without gravity. He -might bring up anywhere from Orion to the -Great Bear. Only one thing was certain—he -could not, for the present, bring up in Switzerland; -and yet, oddly enough, that seemed -to be the only part of any possible terrestrial -orbit that had an attraction. But attraction -decreases as the square of the distance. Assuming, -for the sake of argument, that he was -now two miles from her, and loved her with -his whole heart; if he were twelve thousand -miles away, he would love her only one -divided by the square of six thousand—only -one thirty-six-millionth part as much. In -other words, he would have thirty-five million -nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine -hundred and ninety-nine thirty-six millionths -of his heart left—left to bestow upon the -dusky beauties of the Pacific. Damn the -dusky beauties of the Pacific. He would see -his sister Mary. After all, she was dearer to -him than the dusky beauties of the Pacific -could possibly be.</p> - -<p>When the boy arrived home, he drove to -the stable, and alighting, threw the reins to a -groom. He was perfectly sure that his life -was broken; but a groom is a necessary adjunct -of any life at all. He rolled a cigarette -and strolled toward the house, still holding -the rose, by the stem, between the first and -second fingers of his left hand. Momentarily -his thoughts had wandered from the English -girl; he was still entirely busied in constructing -a proper <i>dénouement</i> for himself. The romance -of his life, he felt, was gone; but he -desired that his career should be consistent -with his tragic part in life. She had left him -enough self-esteem for that.</p> - -<p>So he entered the house.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE next few weeks seemed long enough to -Vane; but, fortunately, we may make -them short. They must be told; they were -part of his life; how large a part, no one—possibly -not even himself—ever knew.</p> - -<p>When Vane entered the main door, which -François, the old butler, did not open for him -as usual, he saw nothing of his mother. One -or two of her shawls were lying, as if hastily -thrown off, on the carved oak chair in the hall. -The day was cool, and the embers of the -morning fire were still red in the chimneyplace. -The cigarette did not satisfy him; so -he pulled out a cigar, and looking for a lighter, -noticed a yellow envelope near him, back -downward on the floor; close by it was a thin -sheet of paper. Taking this, he was about to -twist it up, when he saw that it was a telegram. -He opened it and read his name, and -the message, “<i>Mary is dead. Tell your mother -for us. Pray, come directly. Gresham.</i>”</p> - -<p>When the servants came in, they found him -standing by the fireplace. “Yes,” they said to -him, “Madame had left for Dieppe that morning. -She said nothing, but that Mr. Henry -should follow her to England. François had -accompanied her. Mr. Henry would have the -carriage immediately. But surely Mr. Henry -would dine before departing.”</p> - -<p>No; he would go directly. Thomas must -pack his portmanteau. “And, Thomas, lay out -a black suit—all in black, you understand?” -He would take a glass of wine and a biscuit. -“And, Thomas, all letters for any one were to -be forwarded to him at Sir Thomas Gresham’s, -The Eyotts, Rushey, Lincolnshire. Stop; he -would write the address on a card.“ So he -caught the evening mail from Rennes, and the -night tidal steamer from Dieppe. And the -gray English fog at sunrise the next morning -found him off Newhaven, still pacing the -deck.</p> - -<p>Into the cloud of London at nine; out at -ten, and flying through Essex cornfields and -Cambridgeshire fens. There had been heavy -rains the night before, and the country was -soggy and saturated, with white gleams of -water over the land. The hay was swashing -in the fields like seaweed. Then the great -church of Ely broke the horizon, and he -changed the train, finding an hour to wait. -The little town was deserted; the great towers -seemed to weigh it down, to compel a solemn -stillness. He passed his time in the -cathedral. At the end of the nave, just in -front of the eastern windows, is a beautiful -reredos, a marvellous assemblage of angels, -saints and pinnacles. There is a central figure -of Christ among the apostles which had a -strange attraction for him. He must have -been quite rapt in this; for the din of the -noon-day bells reminded him that his train -left at twelve-fourteen.</p> - -<p>At Rushey Station the carriage met him -from the Eyotts, with Sir Henry’s footmen in -mourning. The Greshams were all very fond -of Mary. He saw his mother as soon as he -got to the house; but nothing was said between -them for a long time. “Mary is to be -buried here,” she began, finally. “I think it -better; better than any place out of America.” -Then, after a pause: “I have not dared to -telegraph your father. I could not bear to -have him know, all alone. He has not been -well lately, I know; and is anxious about his -business. I wrote him that Mary was ill, and -begged him to come to France.”</p> - -<p>The Greshams were very kind, and all was -done that could be done. Clara Gresham -seemed overcome with grief; she had loved -Mary so dearly, and her visit was to have been -such a happy one. She was a quiet, rather -plain girl, but Vane found he could talk more -easily with her than with any one else. His -mother and he said very little when they were -together.</p> - -<p>One morning, at the breakfast table, Vane -got a letter from America. Some presentiment -made him conceal it from his mother, and not -open it until he was alone. It was written in -a tremulous hand, unlike his father’s, and -told him they had lost everything. His -father’s property, though large, was all involved -in railways; and some panic had intervened -at a critical moment and all had been -swept away. “My poor boy,” the letter went -on, “even your own little fortune is gone. -Will you forgive me? You can bear it, I -know, for you are young, and can make your -own way; and your mother has loved me long -enough to live with me these few last years in -poverty; but when I think of Mary’s future, -so different from what I had hoped, it breaks -my heart. You must give up the lease of -Monrepos and come to America directly.”</p> - -<p>His mother divined bad news, immediately, -and followed him, when he left the room; but -she seemed almost happy to hear it was only -their fortune they had lost, and not her husband. -Her one idea was to get back to him in -America; but, to do that they must first return -to France. Their departure from the -Greshams was hasty, and in the afternoon they -were on their way to Brittany. His mother -seemed very much broken; and he even feared -for her mind at times. It was necessary to interrupt -the journey at London and Dover; and -it was with a feeling of relief that he found -himself finally within the gates of home.</p> - -<p>But Vane’s life was to begin with a crushing -succession of sorrows. Mrs. Vane was impatient -and nervous; and went hastily into the -house while he turned to give some directions -about the luggage. As he stood talking to the -coachman, he heard a faint cry in the hall. -He went quickly in, and found his mother -fainting, another fatal yellow envelope beside -her. It was a telegram from one of his father’s -friends in New York, announcing his sudden -death in that city.</p> - -<p>It was with great difficulty that Mrs. Vane -was brought back to consciousness at all; and -when she revived, she was delirious. Vane -knew nothing whatever about illness; but he -carried her up-stairs himself and then drove to -Rennes for another doctor, leaving the local -practitioners in charge. It seemed so strange -to be all alone, to have charge of the family -affairs, to have no one to consult with or rely -upon. But Mary, too, was dead.</p> - -<p>So he drove into Rennes and brought a respectable -old doctor, who talked gracefully -about nothings, and looked at him curiously -and not unkindly over his spectacles. He -heard in a few words the story of his mother’s -illness, but seemed more interested in Vane -himself. “Ce beau jeune homme,” he said, -tapping him playfully on the arm; “il ne faut -pas gâter tout ça!” The young man somewhat -impatiently shook him off and assured him -that he was well. Arriving at the château, -Dr. Kérouec went at once to the sick-room, -but stayed there barely five minutes.</p> - -<p>Yes, one could save her life; he had seen -that directly. But, for the rest, he must get -her at once to some place of security where -she might have treatment—it was her only -chance. But Vane said No to this; not until -they were sure.</p> - -<p>The next day she had recovered her strength, -but was violently insane. They lived in the -château a month and there was no change. -Then the servants talked of going, and letters -came from America telling Vane how complete -his father’s ruin had been. He had been -buried by his friends in New York, as Vane -had directed by telegraph. Vane could no -longer keep the château or even pay the -household expenses. He must go to America -to see what he could save of his father’s estate.</p> - -<p>At the end of the month several physicians, -most skilled in mental disorders, had a consultation -on his mother’s case. The decision was -unanimous—she was incurable. Could she -live? Yes, with proper care, for years. Dr. -Kérouec had a personal friend who made a -specialty of these cases and took charge of -only two or three patients at a time. Was -this her only chance of getting well? Yes: -if no chance could be called a chance. It was -not an ordinary <i>maison de santé</i>, and here she -would have the best of treatment, but it was -expensive—fifteen hundred francs a month. -Could she bear the journey to America? -Never. Vane thanked the doctors and dismissed -them all, except Dr. Kérouec.</p> - -<p>That night, for many hours, the young man -paced the courtyard under his mother’s window. -At ten in the morning he asked to see -the doctor and found him breakfasting.</p> - -<p>“I have decided,” he said briefly. Dr. Kérouec -extended his hand: “Ce brave jeune -homme!” The next evening his mother was -safely installed in the pretty little house near -Rennes, where already Dr. Kérouec and his -friend had privately made preparations. “And, -my boy,” said Dr. Kérouec (who was rich and -knew all the circumstances by this time), “it -is customary to pay in advance only when my -friend does not know <i>ses gens</i>. I have told him -that you will pay at the end of the year.” -Vane’s voice faltered as he thanked the doctor, -but he produced a bank note for five -thousand francs and insisted upon leaving it -then.</p> - -<p>That night Dr. Kérouec saw Vane safely on -board the St. Malo packet. “I will care for -her, my son,” he said, with a parting pressure -of the hand. “Ce brave jeune homme,” he -muttered, as he walked ashore and up the -little Norman street, mopping his bald head -(for it was a hot June evening) with a large -red silk handkerchief.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">V</span>ANE had six hundred francs left; and, -taking the Holyhead mail, the next evening -he was on board the City of Richmond at -Queenstown as a steerage passenger. He had -been troubled with no further thoughts of adventure -in the Soudan; and was quite indifferent -as to his own <i>dénouement</i>. He spent a great -deal of the time at sea walking on the deck; as -a steerage passenger he was allowed to walk -aft as far as the foremast. The other steerage -passengers looked upon him as an intellectual -young gentleman; probably a scholar in reduced -circumstances.</p> - -<p>Eighteen thousand francs a year, Vane was -thinking; this, at least, he must have, for his -mother could not be sent elsewhere. Gold was -then at a premium, and this sum meant four -thousand a year in America. Just the insignificant -fortune he had lost; but could his labor -be worth so much? This problem had filled -his mind, and kept his temper sane. One who -has to earn his bread has little time to sigh -for things less possible of attainment. The -natural animal motive atones for any want of -others; no one is a pessimist who has to work -for his living. The young man smiled a little -at the thought that he, too, was going to -America to seek his fortune—not to improve -his future, but to amend what remained of the -past. This one obvious, clear duty was before -him then. Afterwards, he might see what the -world had left for him.</p> - -<p>One day about sunset he was sitting on the -deck, reading a favorite book of his—an old -Florentine edition of Petrarca. As he turned -the leaves, a broken rose fell from them. It -was a book which they—the English girl and -he—had often read together; and, having no -Bible (for, like all Frenchmen and many young -men, he was rather a skeptic in matters of religion), -he had thrown her rose hastily between -the leaves. He was surprised a little, -now, at his own want of sentiment. But those -times already seemed so far off! He looked at -the flower a moment; then picked it up, and -dropped it in the sea. The leaves scattered -as it fell, and were soon lost in the broad wake -of the steamer.</p> - -<p>Vane landed in New York among five hundred -other steerage passengers. Of course the -papers did not take the trouble to report the -coming of so insignificant a person; nor did he -call upon any of his social acquaintances. His -first visit was to his father’s grave; then he -went to see, at their down-town offices, such of -his father’s business friends and correspondents -as he knew by name. He had written -Mr. Peyton—the one from whom the news had -come—to suspend all decisive steps until he -came. Mr. Peyton—as indeed were all who -had known his father—was very kind; and -told him the first thing to do was to get appointed -administrator of his father’s estate. -This being done, he called a meeting of his -father’s creditors. Mr. Peyton had advised -him to offer a settlement of sixty cents on the -dollar; but he did not accept this suggestion. -He told the creditors of Mr. Peyton’s advice, -and added that he could probably pay at least -seventy cents. But, he continued, his desire -was to pay in full. His only hope of so doing -was to be allowed to hold his father’s investments -for a time, manage them judiciously, -and avoid forced sales. Would they give him -three years?</p> - -<p>They were few in number, all capitalists, -and co-operators with his father; and they -were pleased with something in the young -man’s manner. All except one could easily -spare the money; and to him Vane, with the -consent of the other creditors, gave his dividend -of seventy per cent., and received his -acquittances in full. And that night the other -creditors, at a directors’ dinner, agreed that, -while they had done a very foolish thing, they -were anxious to see what young Vane would -make of it.</p> - -<p>Young Vane took two small rooms in the -oldest house of a down-town street, for which -he paid two dollars a week. And that autumn, -Vane, who a few months before had barely admitted -that the name Bellefontaine had a civilized -sound, might have been seen riding on -the cow-catcher of a locomotive in Northern -Wisconsin, and estimating the probable earnings -from freight when the forests about him -were cut. When he got his father’s affairs -into such shape that they could be managed -from New York, he procured a clerkship in a -banking-house in that city at six hundred dollars -salary. And then for a year, his life was -monotonous routine without a day’s rest. He -rose at seven, prepared his own breakfast of -bread and fruit, and was at the bank before -nine. He lunched on a sandwich; left the -bank at five, and walked to the Park and back. -At seven he dined on a steak and a pint of ale. -And such of his evenings as were not occupied -with the care of his father’s estate, this practical -young man of business gave, not to newspapers -and stock reports, but to mediæval history -and Italian poetry. It was his safety -valve. He sometimes thought of writing a -book on the social and political history of the -Florentine republic. He steadily refused all -invitations of his capitalist friends to dinner -or other entertainments. He could now live -with two suits of clothes, and, to accept their -invitations, he would need three; moreover, he -secretly feared that he could not bear his -present mode of life if he had even a glimpse -of any other. Only while alone could he forget -that he was alone in the world. John, who -was in the same banking-house, was the only -man he knew; and many an evening John left -a dinner, or was late at a party, that he might -sit for an hour in the little back room in -Washington Place.</p> - -<p>At the end of the first year Vane took a -week’s vacation, walking in the Catskills. -Every week he had a letter from Rennes; and -frequently one from Dr. Kérouec, telling him -of no change in his mother’s condition. When -he returned from his vacation, he was called -into the counting-room of the senior partner, -and given a check for four hundred dollars in -addition to his first year’s salary of six hundred; -and, moreover, was promoted to a position -of three thousand a year salary. That -first year, Vane had spent three hundred and -eighty dollars in board and lodging, and eighty -more in pocket money. He had bought no -clothing, having brought all he needed from -France. His travelling expenses had been -large, but these he had charged to the account -of his father’s estate. This left him five hundred -and forty dollars to the good.</p> - -<p>Vane then went to Mr. Peyton and borrowed -three thousand dollars on his own security. -This three thousand he sent to Dr. Kérouec; -and five hundred dollars of his earnings he invested -in a life-assurance policy payable to Dr. -Kérouec as trustee for his mother. He thus -had forty dollars in his pocket at the beginning -of his second year.</p> - -<p>By this time some of his father’s railways -were beginning to get out of shallow water. -Vane watched them carefully; and by judicious -management and successful sales, he was -able, on the first of August, eighteen hundred -and seventy-six, the end of the three years -allowed him, to pay his father’s creditors their -claims in full—four hundred and forty-seven -thousand dollars, with interest for three years -at six per cent. And over and above this, -after paying Mr. Peyton, he had sixteen thousand -dollars, which he might call his own. -Early in August he sailed for Brittany, and -spent a week with Dr. Kérouec at Rennes.</p> - -<p>His mother’s hair was now white; she was -quiet, but still hopelessly insane, nor did she -even recognize him.</p> - -<p>Vane was back again on the first of September. -When he presented himself at the bank, -he was offered a responsible position, and a -salary of six thousand dollars a year, with a -hint of partnership in the near future. He now -removed to lodgings in Eighteenth Street; and -on going home that night, for the first time in -two years he burst into a fit of crying. This -turn of hysterics was the prelude to a low -fever, of which he lay five weeks ill.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">J</span>OHN HAVILAND was with him a great -deal of this time, and, on his recovery, took -him severely to task for the life he had been -leading. For three years he had been a mere -machine—a blind, passionless, purposeful -energy. A man, and a young man, could not -live like that. What pleasure had he taken in -all that time? And a young man, unless he has -attained happiness, cannot live entirely without -pleasure, even if it be true that he should -not seek for it. And Haviland knew enough -of Vane’s life to feel assured that there had -not hitherto been much happiness. Moreover, -Vane was a man of the world, and had -been out of it for three years. It was unnatural. -He should see something of the people -of his own country. His mother was well; and -would probably be the same for years. And -he had been nearly three years in mourning. -“Now,” John concluded, “I wish you to come -to a dinner at our house on Friday.”</p> - -<p>Vane smiled, and looked at his threadbare -black suit—one of the original black suits—which -had seen much service since he brought -it over from France. But he pleasantly accepted -John’s invitation, and forthwith visited -his tailor. That afternoon, in the park, as -he turned to come home from his walk, and -saw the walls and spires of his own city -harshly outlined before the sunset, he realized -for the first time that he was a stranger in a -strange land. For the first time, as he walked -down Fifth Avenue, between the level, high -wall of house fronts, with their regular squares -of lighted windows, he caught himself wondering -what was behind these windows. Now -and then he saw a feminine silhouette on the -white window-shades; in some houses, even, -he could see into a lower room; there were usually -pictures on the walls and often books, or -bindings, on the shelves; there was frequently -an old gentleman by the fireside, and always a -young girl or two. It was piquant to catch -these glimpses of the domestic hearth from -the street; he remembered how impossible -such visions were in the Faubourg, among the -old hotels between court and garden.</p> - -<p>As he thought of the newly discovered country -he was soon to enter, so strange to him, he -felt that he, also, was strange to himself. He -tried to bring back his old nature of the boulevards, -Longchamp and Trouville; but it -seemed to him childish and obsolete; showy -and senseless, like a pasteboard suit of stage -armor. He did not regret it. He was a man -and an American; men were earnest, life in -America was earnest. He knew little of his -own city; but he had read the current novels; -and he thought that he had seen enough to -know that the every-day life in America was -tangible, material, and the life of society what -it should be, a gay leisure, a surface of pleasure -and rest. Now, in Paris it was the every-day -life that was trivial; the theatres were -filled with vaudevilles; but the tragedies were -everywhere, off the stage. It was well, the -young man felt, that he was an American; his -life had begun too sternly for a more artificial -state of society; he lacked more than other -people, and he demanded more from the -world.</p> - -<p>So the Friday night in question found him -arrayed in the normal evening costume of -modern times. It wore somewhat awkwardly -and strangely at first; and one or two little -minutiæ of dress he did not know at all; as, -whether gentlemen in America would wear -gold studs, and how they tied their cravats. -A waiter met him in the hall holding a -plate, on which were several little envelopes, -one of which bore his name. I suppose, -thought he, in a country where there is no precedence, -but much formality, this indicates -whom we are to take in to dinner. He opened -his envelope and found within a card, and -written in a feminine hand <i>Miss Baby Thomas</i>. -What an intolerable name!</p> - -<p>Coming above into the reception room, his -first impressions were decidedly favorable. -John’s mother was a comely woman of that -comfortable domestic sort known as motherly; -she raised one’s opinion of human nature -even by the way in which she sat down. The -prevailing tone seemed refined, Vane thought. -No more bad taste was visible than is unavoidable -in a country where the head of a -family dies in a finer house than the one he -was born in. The women were charming in -dress, and face and figure; but their voices -were disagreeable, and they seemed to him a -little brusque. In fact, the men, though rather -awkward, seemed to have more social importance, -if not better breeding.</p> - -<p>So far had he progressed in his studies, -when a voice over his shoulder said, “Miss -Thomas—Mr. Vane.” Inferring that he was -being presented, he turned quickly about, -bowing as he did so. The young lady did not -wait for him to begin, but at once rattled off -a number of questions about himself and his -foreign life. As the most of these she answered -herself with an “I suppose,” or a -“but of course,” Vane had leisure to observe -her while she talked. She was pretty; admirably, -sweetly pretty; there was no doubt of -that; as pretty as masses of dead-black hair -and eyes of intense gentian blue could make -her. She had a lovely neck and hands; and a -smile which seemed placed there with a divine -foreknowledge of kisses. It was at once infantine, -arch and gentle; and then there was a -pretty little toss of the head and a shrug of -the white, young shoulders. Vane looked at -her curiously, a little condescendingly perhaps, -as the first specimen of the natives he had -seen. She did not seem to mind his looking at -her. If a French girl had so calmly borne his -glance, there would have been a little of the -coquette in hers. But, after all, thought Vane,—this -was charming; more ideal, more intelligent, -sweeter than Paris—but it was not unlike -Paris. The dress was certainly Parisian. -She was better dressed than young ladies are -in Paris. Her people must be very rich. Yet, -he was disappointed. She was not American -enough. She would have been quite in his -mood of five years gone by. She was not like -English girls; and he had hoped American -girls were like them.</p> - -<p>Vane had just finished this process of mentally -ticketing her off, when she grew silent. -The first quick rush of her conversation was -gone. She seemed to be getting her breath -and waiting for him. He did not quite know -how to begin. This young lady reminded him -of a glass of champagne. When you first pour -it out, there is a froth and sparkle; then a -stillness comes; if you wish a fresh volume of -sparkles, you must drop something into it. A -piece of sugar is best. Vane’s French breeding -stood him in good stead: he began with a -compliment.</p> - -<p>After the dinner, the nine ladies disappeared -from the room; and the nine men grouped -themselves at one end of the table and smoked -cigars over the sweetmeats. When the room -was well filled with tobacco-smoke, they threw -open the doors, and returned to the drawing-room. -The ladies were grouped about, picturesquely, -drinking tea; and the air was delicate -with their presence. As the body of men -moved in, it seemed a little like an incursion -of the Huns into Italy.</p> - -<p>The party kept together but a few moments -more. Most of the men were sleepy; little was -said by the women. It was as if there were -nothing to talk about, or as if the men had -eaten too much; but they had eaten very little. -Vane was relieved when they got out of doors.</p> - -<p>John walked back to his lodgings with him. -The two young men found no lack of things to -talk about. Haviland took still another cigar. -“What did you think of the dinner?” said he -finally. “I mean, the people?”</p> - -<p>“I thought it was very pleasant,” said Vane, -eluding the second form of the question. But -Haviland recurred to it.</p> - -<p>“I mean the people. Miss Thomas, for instance.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Thomas, for instance,” said the stranger. -“I think,” he continued, recalling to -mind his mental label, “she is sweet-tempered, -innocent, ambitious, and shallow.” -Vane had formerly prided himself on some -acquaintance with women of the world.</p> - -<p>John laughed. “Perhaps you are right,” -he said. “But she will amuse you, and wake -you up.” It seemed as if he were remembering -something; then he laughed again. “You -do not do her justice yet. She is one of the -most entertaining and, in an innocent little -way, exciting girls I know. I put her next -you for that purpose.”</p> - -<p>“Who is her father?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, a stockbroker down-town. No one in -particular. The family would not interest -you.”</p> - -<p>“None of the mammas were here to-night?”</p> - -<p>“Dear me, no,” answered John. “Why do -you ask?”</p> - -<p>“I should like to see some of them; that is -all.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">A</span>T this time Vane was not in the habit of -thinking about women. He had found life -particularly serious, and girls were not serious. -Somewhat fatuously, perhaps, he fancied no -woman under thirty could either understand -him, or arouse his own interest. And most -of the women over thirty were married. He -understood that in America any intimacy -with married women was out of the question; -married women were quite given up to domestic -duties, and kept out of society.</p> - -<p>But Vane had certain theories of his own as -to social observances, and he thought it his -duty, after taking Miss Thomas in to dinner, -to call upon her. He performed this duty -(which afterwards became a pleasure) upon -the following afternoon. He found her in a -somewhat dingy house on East Fifteenth -Street, but, though the setting was dull and -commonplace, herself was even prettier than -he remembered her, and simply and charmingly -dressed. Vane was no amateur of bric-à-brac; -he had no auctioneer’s eye, and, if a -room was in perfect taste, did not commonly -notice it at all; but glaring faults would force -themselves upon him, and he could not help -observing that, with the exception of the -daughter’s dress, the household showed no -evidence of knowledge of what is good in literature, -art, or taste.</p> - -<p>Except Miss Thomas. Always except Miss -Thomas herself. She received him with much -grace of manner, but seemed to have very -little to say. Vane found that he had to talk -largely against time; and this rather disappointed -him at first. At first, but afterwards -he decided that he liked this still mood best. -There was no dimple and sparkle, but it was -quiet and companionable. She is not like “a -young lady,” Vane thought; still less like a -French young lady. She is neither <i>ingénue</i> -nor <i>formée</i>; she is young, bright, a good fellow. -One might play Paul to her Francesca -without a <i>dénouement</i>. How could he have -thought her ill-trained? Though she had evidently -thought little, read less, and been -taught nothing at all, she had a sweet natural -elegance of her own. Vane found time to observe -all this between his sentences. They -were not very well connected.</p> - -<p>Was he going to Mrs. Roster’s ball? she -had asked.—No, he thought not. He did not -know her.—He had better go. Every one -would be there.</p> - -<p>“Then I fear I am no one,” said Vane. “I -am not even invited.” He was sorry to fancy -that her interest in him flagged a little after -this. She had met him at a good house, but, -after all, he might be a mere protégé of John -Haviland’s. Mr. Haviland was always picking -up queer people. A moment after this Vane -took his leave.</p> - -<p>Why should he not go to Mrs. Roster’s? he -said to himself. He could not always be -brooding on the addled eggs of the past. After -all, the world was all that was left him, and -in the world the dance still went on merrily, -and maidens’ eyes were bright; leaves still -were green, and the foam of the sea as white -as ever, and wine still sparkled in the glass. -He said this to himself with a somewhat sceptical -grin, for, like most Frenchmen with -whom he had lived, he took little pleasure in -drinking. A Frenchman drinks to go to the -devil: he rarely goes to the devil because he -drinks. Yet he was, or at all events he had -been, fond of society. He had liked light and -gay faces, and bright conversation, and heartlessness—if -there must be heartlessness—masked -under suave manners and intellectual -sympathy. Out of society the heartlessness -was just as real, he had used to think, only -ruder; there is at least as much snobbishness, -and it is more offensively vulgar. He could -not stay always out from all society. He must -find something to pull him back into the -world; he must get some grip of life. Hitherto -his only foothold had been his clear necessity -of making eighteen thousand francs a -year to send to his mother.</p> - -<p>He could probably have persuaded himself -with much less reasoning if he had not had a -secret inclination to go; but, as it was, he -reasoned himself into it, and thought that he -thought it was a bore. So he went to Mrs. -Roster’s ball. Of course he admired the -beauty of American women; the beauty of -American women is like the Hudson River; -one is bound to prefer it to the Rhine. He -thought the party was very pretty and the -dancing beautifully done, and, moreover, he -made the acquaintance of several young ladies -of quite a different type than Miss Thomas’s. -They had plenty of breeding and intelligence, -and talked the latest slang of culture to perfection, -and were evidently of the great world, -if they had not quite so much charm as she. -Still none of these, as yet, were essentially -American, or even very deeply English, though -they dabbled in it.</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas herself, for some reason unknown -to Vane, did not receive quite so much -attention as he had fancied that she would. It -was not her fault, for she was charmingly -dressed and never looked prettier.</p> - -<p>As he was ready to leave he met her, for the -first time, coming down the stairs in wraps -and wanting her carriage.</p> - -<p>“You have not spoken to me the whole -evening,” said she softly, as she took his arm.</p> - -<p>“I was afraid to, mademoiselle,” said Vane, -half jocosely.</p> - -<p>“Come to-morrow,” she whispered seriously. -“It is my day for receiving, and I shall -be so glad to see you.” Vane bowed his -thanks, and the next moments were occupied -in conveying herself and skirts safely into the -coupé. As he was about to shut the door she -extended her hand frankly: “You will come, -won’t you?” Vane was a little puzzled; he -took her hand awkwardly, and muttered something -about being only too delighted. He had -no experience whatever of American women, -much less American girls. Why should she -so particularly wish to see him? He called -the next day, expecting to learn, but in that he -was doomed to disappointment. Apparently -Miss Thomas, if she had any reason, had forgotten -it; she had very little to say, and the -call was quite conventional and commonplace. -“Bah!” he thought, as he walked home. -“Here I have wasted half an afternoon over -this girl simply because she asked me. -Doubtless she herself had nothing better to -do than waste it over me.” And perhaps he -added secretly that his life was something -more serious than hers, and, at all events, he -had no mind for light flirtation.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">N</span>EVERTHELESS, some curious chance -made him see a good deal of Miss Thomas. -He was very apt to sit next her at dinner, -even if he did not take her in. And whatever -she might be, she certainly was not silly. She -said very little, it is true; but it occurred to -Vane one day that what she did say never -placed her in a false or foolish position. Nor -had he ever made a remark which she did -not fully understand, in its full bearing and -implication. Sometimes she affected—particularly -if its nature was complimentary—to be -wholly unconscious of its meaning; sometimes -she would even ask an explanation. But -a moment after, she was very apt to say or do -some little thing which showed that she had -understood it perfectly. Vane, who, in his -flippant moods, was rather an adept at conversational -fencing, and had flattered himself that -very careful ground was quite unnecessary -with Miss Thomas, gradually put more attention -into his guard and more care in his attack. -And when he saw, to continue his own -metaphor, that his simple thrusts in quarte -and tierce were easily parried and sometimes -returned, he began to honor his adversary with -a more elaborate attack. But, as he one day -acknowledged to himself, though she had -rarely touched him, yet he was not sure that -he had ever got fairly under her own guard. -Altogether, the more he saw of Miss Thomas, -the more she interested him; and after the -serious struggles of the day, he quite enjoyed -his little playful evening encounters with so -charming a feminine adversary. For he began -to admit to himself that she was charming—there -was no doubt of that. And meantime -(so he fancied) the intercourse with her happy, -simple nature was having a beneficial influence -on his own.</p> - -<p>For the past three years his attitude had -been one of stern courage, of self-renunciation. -But, after all, why should even he be always -shut out from the spring? Flowers still -bloomed in the world, summer followed winter, -and this pretty little butterfly that fluttered -near him might, after all, bring him healthier -thoughts from her own air than he found -in his morbid life. What a sharp inquisitor -is one’s own self! What a cross-examiner of -hidden motive! And what a still sharper witness -is that self under inquisition! Vane -never took his young friend seriously; and -felt a need of excusing himself for trifling, as -he thought.</p> - -<p>John suddenly asked him, one day, what he -thought of Miss Thomas now, and whether he -had changed his views at all. “I was very -much struck with your first diagnosis,” he -said. “At a moment’s study, you gave the -popular opinion of her; that she was gay, -shallow, good-humored, and ambitious—and -you might have added clever, rather than -innocent.”</p> - -<p>Vane was a little displeased.</p> - -<p>“I think that I and the world were wrong,” -said he. “She is not shallow, but she is humble -rather than vain; as for ambition, she is -perhaps too much without it; and I should not -be surprised if somewhere about her pretty -little self she had a true woman’s heart, which -she is not yet conscious of.”</p> - -<p>John laughed. “Look out, old man,” said -he; “only a poet is allowed to fall in love -with his own creation. Never say I have not -given you fair warning. Ten Eyck was very -attentive to her at one time; and the world -believed that she wanted to marry him. But -he was appointed <i>chargé d’affaires</i> at London; -and left her without bringing matters to an -issue. Since then, when he has been back in -New York once or twice, he has entirely -dropped her.”</p> - -<p>“And do you mean to say that she still cares -for him after that?”</p> - -<p>“So the world thinks; and the world is apt -to be right in such matters.”</p> - -<p>“Bah!” said Vane. “No woman could care -for a man who had once led her to believe he -loved her, and left her.”</p> - -<p>“Humph!” answered John. “That may be -true of woman in the abstract; but I am not -sure of its truth in this longitude. It is easier -to judge woman in general than a New York -girl in particular.”</p> - -<p>“At all events,” said Vane, “I give her full -leave to try her skill on me, skilful as you say -she is. Indeed, if you think she is fair game -for what you call a flirtation, you have removed -my only scruples.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, old boy—go in. But Miss -Thomas once told another girl that she could -understand any man in two days’ acquaintance. -Don’t go in too deep.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” thought Vane when John had -left. “I flatter myself I am beyond her -hurting. It is pleasant enough to have her as -a friend. I wish I could wish to marry her.” -And he called to his mind Brittany and that -last rose. “But I am sorry if she really can -still care for that man. Ten Eyck was his -name? I should be sorry to like her less. -How strange these American women are! -Now, in France—Bah!” he broke off, “it -can’t be true; and, after all, what do I care if -it is?”</p> - -<p>Vane liked her very much, and thought her -very much underrated by the world; and the -same afternoon, by way of vindication, he went -to her house and made a long call, <i>tête-à-tête</i>. -He had fallen into an easy companionship -with her, which made her society a delightful -rest and respite from the earnest stress and -strain of his life, of any man’s life. They -were beginning to have numerous little confidences -as to people and things; views shared -by them only, which gave them little private -topics of conversation, nooks of thought, where -they met. Thus Vane could quite shut out a -third party from the conversation, and keep -Miss Thomas to himself. Her cultivation and -taste surprised him more and more as he -knew her. This pretty little New York girl, -naturally half-spoiled and petted, brought up -in a particularly <i>bourgeois</i> household, never -having been out of it and New York, had yet -a range of mind and appreciation quite equal -to anything he could bring her in books or in -conversation. The people about her seemed -totally different—different in views, in taste, -in appearance, in manner. Yet she never -seemed discontented at home—a common -fault of children in a country where they -improve upon their parents. She moved -among them modestly and lovingly, like a -princess unconscious of her royalty. All this -thought Vane, and marvelled.</p> - -<p>He found that even his peculiar tastes were -shared. It has been mentioned that this successful -young business man had a secret taste -for Italian poetry. This he had been used to -indulge alone; but on his mentioning it, she -spoke with enthusiasm of the sweet old mediæval -<i>terza rima</i>. Having little opinion of -women’s power of purely ideal enjoyment, he -had at first doubted the sincerity of this taste. -Still, he brought around some old verses one -day; and soon it became his habit, instead of -reading alone, to pass an evening or two in a -week reading with her. And so during the -winter, with double the pleasure he had ever -known before, they went through the familiar -pages of Ariosto, Tasso and Dante. The fifth -canto of the Inferno remained, however, her -favorite; and with the light of her eyes upon -the text Vane made a much better translation -than Byron or Cary ever dreamed. She was -never tired of hearing the passage beginning -“Siede la terra dove nata fui.” And much -practice in translation makes perfect.</p> - -<p>Thus, thanks to Miss Thomas and a little -sight of the lighter rim of life, Vane passed a -winter which, if not happy, was at least less -bitter than he had known for years. In the -natural course of events, society pronounced -him attentive to Miss Thomas; but Vane cared -little for that. His character was not of the -mould which cares what the world says. He -did not believe that her life was very happy, -either; and he thought they were both the -better for their friendship. The more he saw -of her, the less he doubted that she had at one -time cared for some one, Ten Eyck or another; -though, of course, for him she would -never care again. After all, she was his superior; -she had kept her sweet self above her -sorrow, he had not. How he had misinterpreted -her that first evening! Now he saw -she was a woman, in all the glory of her -womanhood, strong, gentle, and true.</p> - -<p>Vane went back to Brittany in the June of -the summer following. One of his last calls -was upon Miss Thomas, and she chided him -with not making it the very last. However, -the call lasted three hours. Twenty times -Vane rose to go, and each time was detained -by some pretext or another of Miss Thomas. -There is a sweet pleading manner of urging a -wish, even a selfish one, that makes you feel as -if you were doing yourself a favor in gratifying -it. Miss Thomas had this manner, which -few men, particularly strong men, can resist. -Vane always yielded. He would as soon have -thought of putting a pet canary through the -manual of arms as of resisting it. In this way -Vane’s visit was prolonged, and when he went -home he admitted to himself that it had been -a very charming one. He thought she was a -lovely woman, and wished some nice fellow -would marry her. What a gentle, sunny nature -she had! And what a lovely type of the -best American women, so different both from -the French and English, so natural, so pure, -and yet so bright and charming. “At least,” -thought Vane, “if I ever go back to France to -live I shall have seen some things wholly -worthy of admiration in my own country.” -He was sorry if she really cared (as she had -seemed to) that he had called upon her two -days before his departure. She had been -very kind to him that winter, and it certainly -would have been more <i>empressé</i> to have called -upon her last. Vane stopped on his way to -Jersey City the morning of the steamer’s sailing, -and procured a superb mass of roses. -These he sent to Miss Thomas with his card: -“From her sincere friend.” It was the last -thing he did in America.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">V</span>ANE stayed with old Dr. Kérouec in -Rennes, and found the good physician -kinder than ever. He always called Vane -“my son” now, and he had to submit to numerous -embraces, a proceeding he did not like, -for in his manners Vane had that clumsiness -in expressing anything emotional, that Gothic -phlegm, about which Saxons grow vainglorious, -and for which Celts detest them.</p> - -<p>Every day Vane walked in the garden with -his mother—a painful duty, for she never -remembered him. Her dementia was quite -harmless now, and she sometimes spoke to -Vane of himself, not knowing him, but never -mentioned his father. Curiously enough her -talk was much of Mary, and of the English girl -who had been the object of his boyish affections. -Vane heard casually of her marriage -that summer, and was more surprised than -pleased to find how little the news affected -him.</p> - -<p>Once in a while, however, he caught himself -wondering what Miss Thomas was doing; and -a week after his arrival he received a note -from her to thank him for the flowers he had -sent. She also said that they were at some -place in Pennsylvania for the summer, far from -the madding crowd, but she found the place -very stupid and the people inane. There was -nothing to do there. The men were all young -Philadelphians, she wrote, and generally uninteresting. -Vane was glad to get the note, -and of course never thought of replying.</p> - -<p>At this time Vane was a handsome, erect -fellow, with a large aquiline nose, and heavy -eyebrows shading quiet eyes. Most of the -people knew him well as the doctor’s protégé. -One day the good old doctor came to -him with an air of much mysterious importance. -He passed Vane’s arm through his, and -led him to his favorite walk up and down the -garden. “My son,” he began, tapping him on -the shoulder, and beginning in a way he evidently -thought to be diplomatic, “you are -growing older, and it is not good for you to -be alone. Listen! it is time you should -marry.”</p> - -<p>Vane looked up quickly, and then struggled -to repress a smile.</p> - -<p>“Listen, my child,” continued the doctor, -much pleased, “I have to propose a <i>parti</i> of -the most charming—but of the most charming! -My wife’s own cousin and two hundred thousand -livres of <i>dot</i>! What say you?”</p> - -<p>Vane was touched, and found it hard to -answer.</p> - -<p>“My child,” the old man went on, “I love -you like my own son—my own son, see you? -You are not noble <i>de naissance—mais, le cœur—d’ailleurs</i>, -neither are you <i>rôturier, non plus</i>. I -have spoken of you to Madame la Comtesse de -la Roche-aigue, and Madame la Comtesse <i>veut -bien</i>. Her daughter is charming—but a child -adorable! You will let me present you <i>comme -futur</i>—what say you?”</p> - -<p>Vane bent over and took the hand of his old -friend. “My father,” he said, “I would do -more for you than for any one living. You -have been more than a father to me. God -bless you for it! But this I cannot do. I -shall never marry.” Vane spoke seriously and -with some tragic effect, like a Manfred or a -Werther.</p> - -<p>The old man sighed deeply. He knew Vane -too well to press the matter. “Ah!” said he, -“you say you will never marry. I know better. -You have seen some American—<i>quelque petite -Américaine rusée</i>. <i>Hélas!</i> and we might all -have been so happy.” The doctor said no -more on the subject, but was sad and quiet -during the rest of Vane’s visit.</p> - -<p>He said nothing afterwards, except on -Vane’s departure. Then he pressed his hand: -“Ah, consider, my child. A young girl of the -most charming—of the <i>most</i> charming—and -two hundred thousand livres of <i>dot</i>!” Vane -could only press his hand in return. And the -last he saw of the doctor, he was standing still -upon the Dieppe pier, rubbing his nose with -an immense silk pocket-handkerchief.</p> - -<p>This was Vane’s fifth trip across the Atlantic; -and for the first time, he felt glad when -the vessel’s prow turned westward. Brittany, -for him, represented the past; America the -future. He was an American, after all. A -day after his arrival he would be immersed in -Wall Street—up in all the mysteries of exchange -and rates, the stock-list his breviary -and the ribbon of telegraph paper his oracle. -Meanwhile, however, he dozed on the deck -and essayed metrical translations of Boccaccio. -He was reading the tale of the pot of basil one -day, and thought for about half a morning of -Miss Thomas. What she had to do with his -reading, he could not see. But she was quite -the most interesting figure in his mental gallery. -A curious jumble was this modern state -of society. Bare flowers sprang up in strange -parterres; exotics grew outside of hot-houses, -and common whiteweed inside. There ought -to be some method of social transplanting; -some way of grafting new blossoms on an old -stock. But all American stock was good; -American society was like a world of rounded -pebbles grating on a beach; the buried pebbles -were quite as fine as those on top; only -these were more stirred and polished, so their -colors came out best. And yet what common, -poor stuff most of them were, after all! A -pleasant trade, that of social lapidary! And -Vane, perhaps for the first time, took note of -the women around him. There was a Philadelphia -girl, pretty and voluble; there was a -young lady from Michigan, who had been to -“college” in Massachusetts and finished herself -abroad, alone, or in company with a dear -friend from Connecticut. There was a girl -from Cleveland, wealthy, marvellous, indescribable; -and a young lady from New Orleans, -with all the fire drawn from her cheeks -into her eyes. There was a girl—a young -woman, a young lady—a being feminine, from -Boston, weighing and analyzing all things -within her somewhat narrow mental horizon; -and a social entity from New York, also of -the feminine variety, but of orbit predicable -and conventional eccentricities, her life a -function of two variables, money and fashion. -All these women were fair, and strange to him; -and this, perhaps, was the only day of his life -that he had definitely considered women from -a contemporary point of view. His assured -income was now eight thousand a year. Four -of this went to his mother, three he spent; -the rest he saved.</p> - -<p>Coming back to New York, he plunged into -a mass of accumulated duties; it was a week -before he found time to see anything of John; -and two weeks before he called on Miss Thomas. -He found her in a rather different mood than -usual; a little sadder, a shade more self-conscious. -“It is two weeks before you come to see -me, and you did not answer my letter,” she said.</p> - -<p>Vane could only bow. “If I had only -known you wished me to,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, well! And what have you seen -abroad?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing of interest to me now.”</p> - -<p>“And what are you going to do this winter?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know. Stick to my trade,” Vane -added laughingly.</p> - -<p>“And shall we not go on with our reading?”</p> - -<p>“I should be only too happy.”</p> - -<p>“What a conventional expression of willingness—what -an enthusiastic acceptance!”</p> - -<p>“Conventions are the safest expressions of -the truth.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by ‘safest’?”</p> - -<p>“The safest to me.”</p> - -<p>She gave a little laugh, in which Vane joined. -“I do not understand you.”</p> - -<p>“You mean you are too skilful a fencer to -admit it.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by ‘fencing’?”</p> - -<p>“The manner of our conversations.”</p> - -<p>“You mean that it is not sincere—that it is -badinage? Why do you do it, then?”</p> - -<p>“I am only too ready to change our ground.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know what you mean.”</p> - -<p>Vane bowed his disbelief in this remark -and rose to go.</p> - -<p>“Ah! do not go yet. I am so lonely to-day, -and it is just the hour of the day when there is -nothing to do. I have no work and my poor -eyes are too weak to read. They are not even -useful!”</p> - -<p>“Why do you imply they are not ornamental? -Why do you say what you do not mean?”</p> - -<p>“But I do mean it.”</p> - -<p>“You know you have lovely eyes.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you never made compliments,” -she said with a little pleased laugh.</p> - -<p>“You see your weak eyes are strong enough -to keep me here.” And rising to go, he extended -his hand.</p> - -<p>“Ah! do not go yet.” And taking his hand, -she almost detained it gently. “I am so glad -to see you once more.”</p> - -<p>Vane laughed again. “Have you read De -Musset’s ‘<i>Il faut qu’une porte soit ouverte ou -fermée</i>’?”</p> - -<p>“No; but I will read it. Why?”</p> - -<p>“Because my calls resemble that one. I -am continually opening the door to go. Now -if my call could have the same ending!” he -added gallantly.</p> - -<p>She colored. “She has read it,” thought -Vane. “<i>Halte-là!</i>” And this time, perhaps -rather precipitately, he took his leave for -good. Miss Thomas gave another of her little -pleased laughs, after he had closed the door. -Vane had been thoroughly amused, and walked -in a very contented frame of mind to John’s. -Coming into his smoking-room, he took a cigar -and threw himself at full length upon the -lounge. He could afford occasionally to smoke -and take life easily now; it was different with -him from the times, three years back, when he -used to get his own breakfast in the little -rooms on Washington Place.</p> - -<p>“Well, old man, how goes it?” said John, -looking up with a light of friendship in his -gray eyes which Vane’s coming always brought -to them.</p> - -<p>“Capitally! I have been passing the afternoon -with Miss Thomas.”</p> - -<p>“And how was she? Fascinating as -ever?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Fascinating</i> is not the word I like to use -of her. It implies conscious effort.”</p> - -<p>Vane was evidently off on a thesis, and Haviland -settled himself on the sofa with a pipe. -“I have seen many women whom the world -calls fascinating, and they never attracted me -at all. We look, admire and pass on. Now, -Miss Thomas has all the brightness of a woman -of the world, with the simplicity of a country -maiden. If she has any charm, it is because -she is just herself, as Nature made her.” Vane -spoke with the air of a knight defending abandoned -beauty.</p> - -<p>“By the way (if you have finished your essay -on an inamorata), I saw Ten Eyck to-day. He -has come back from London, with a chance of -being ambassador to Madrid, and is a better -match than ever.”</p> - -<p>“Ten Eyck? Who is Ten Eyck? Oh! I -remember. Well, and what of it?” Vane -added, after a pause.</p> - -<p>“Oh! nothing, nothing at all. He is the -son of one of our New York Senators, you -know; and has a brilliant future before him.”</p> - -<p>“Bah! The most brilliant future a woman -can have is a future with a man who loves -her.”</p> - -<p>“And where did you pick up that aphorism? -Not from your French education, surely? I -believe Miss Thomas loves him.”</p> - -<p>“I may not be up in American ideas, John, -owing to the French education you sneer at; -but I certainly was brought up to resent a remark -like that, made of a young girl I like.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what there is insulting in saying -that a woman—for she is a woman, as you -yourself admit—loves a man. I think it rather -a compliment. American women rarely do, I -can assure you. Their natures are like a New -England spring—the sun must do a devilish -deal of wooing before even so much as a green -tendril is visible.” And Haviland, who was -just then devoted to the young lady of Puritan -descent whom he has since married, fetched a -deep sigh.</p> - -<p>Vane began to laugh again.</p> - -<p>“Well, well. In time, I, too, shall become a -New Yorker. And by the way, John, speaking -of that—is it customary here to invite a young -lady to go to walk with you?”</p> - -<p>“Why, certainly, if you like. Miss Thomas -has gone many a time, I fancy.”</p> - -<p>“I was not thinking of Miss Thomas,” said -Vane, pettishly.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">VIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">V</span>ANE had not intended to go to Mrs. Roster’s -ball the next night; but he went, -nevertheless. Vane was always a rather cynical -spectator at large parties in New York. -Somehow, it was so different from all that he -had hoped; it was so like Paris, with more -frivolity and fewer social gifts. A cynic is -commonly a snubbed sentimentalist, who takes -it out in growling. Vane had sought the -world because he was lonely; but it seemed to -him more than ever that he was much less -lonely when alone. It is isolation, not loneliness, -that saddens a man of sense; for his -sense tells him that it is the world which is -likely to be right, and proves him a solitary -fool.</p> - -<p>This evening Vane did devote himself to -Miss Thomas; and a charming conversation -they had. “You are quite different from what -I thought you were,” she said. “I used to -think you were serious and queer.”</p> - -<p>“Really,” said Vane; “and what do you -think me now?”</p> - -<p>“At least, I do not think you serious and -queer. Certainly, not <i>serious</i>.”</p> - -<p>“But I am.”</p> - -<p>“Can that be?” There was a heightened -color in her cheek.</p> - -<p>“As you see me. Will you go to walk with -me next Sunday afternoon?”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas looked up suddenly with her -soft eyes; then as suddenly cast them down -again. Vane must have seen that she blushed -a little.</p> - -<p>“Yes.” And then, “if you do not leave -Fifth Avenue,” she added.</p> - -<p>“After that I shall certainly ask you to go -into the Park,” he said.</p> - -<p>“You had better not—at least not before the -Sunday afternoon—or I will not go with you at -all,” laughed Miss Baby, roguishly.</p> - -<p>Vane bent and took her hand for a moment; -as it hung among the orange leaves in the conservatory. -Then he bowed and left her without -an apology. She did not draw her hand -away; and as Vane looked back at her from -the door she was, this time, blushing violently. -Vane himself walked home in a somewhat agitated -frame of mind, and went to sleep; and -when he woke up in the morning, he discovered -that he was very much in love with Baby -Thomas. This discovery caused him more -surprise than disapproval; and yet he felt -bound to confess himself a good deal of a -fool.</p> - -<p>He thought of it several times during the -day, in the intervals of business, and not without -considerable mental invective. However, -as he walked home in the afternoon, he became -less out of humor with himself. She certainly -was a very charming girl, and well worth -winning. At all events it was pleasant to be -in love with her. He expected to see her that -evening, and the prospect gave him a great -deal of happiness, not without a slight seasoning -of excitement, that made quite a novel -enjoyment in his life. Certainly, he reflected, -he was very much in love. It was surprising -how it had grown in the night—like Jack and -his bean-stalk. However, he saw no particular -reason why he should try to cut it down. Perhaps -he secretly doubted whether he could do -so if he chose; and the doubt was agreeable.</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas was not at the party that -evening; and Vane found himself a little -uneasy in consequence. He left early, and -went to see John Haviland.</p> - -<p>“John,” said he, “I am in love with Miss -Thomas.”</p> - -<p>“Many of us have been through that,” said -John, calmly; “it is not fatal.”</p> - -<p>“But,” said Vane, “my constitution may -be more delicate. I am not a hide-bound -rhinoceros.”</p> - -<p>“Neither,” said John, “am I.” And he -defended the aspersion upon his epidermis -with a quadrupedal sigh.</p> - -<p>“But I want to marry her.”</p> - -<p>“That is also a symptom. You need not do -it, however.”</p> - -<p>“What do you know against her?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing; but Ten Eyck has rather too -heavy a prior mortgage.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care for Ten Eyck.”</p> - -<p>“The question is, whether she does.”</p> - -<p>“I know very well that she can’t.”</p> - -<p>“She would hardly wish you to know the -opposite, if the opposite were true.”</p> - -<p>“Bah! I know something about women——”</p> - -<p>“The devil himself can’t know a woman who -doesn’t know herself.”</p> - -<p>“Anyhow, it is a free field——”</p> - -<p>“And plenty of favor.”</p> - -<p>“She hasn’t seen Ten Eyck for years——”</p> - -<p>“The last time was this afternoon.”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“I saw them walking on Fourth Avenue, as -I came up-town in a horse-car.”</p> - -<p>“Humph!” said Vane, and he dropped the -conversation.</p> - -<p>For some weeks he said nothing more to -John about Miss Thomas; and during that -time he was trying, with more or less success, -to persuade himself of his own folly. But he -found it more easy to bend his energies to the -subjugation of Miss Thomas’s heart than of his -own. And John noticed that he left his business -rather earlier in the afternoon than usual, -and always took the Fourth Avenue car up-town. -In his evenings he exhausted a large -part of the most cynical French literature in -convincing himself that he was a fool. But in -spite of Balzac and Scribe, he found that he -looked forward anxiously to the evenings when -he was to meet her; and it was more easy for -him to laugh at his own infatuation—no, -interest was the name he gave it—than to -go for a couple of days without seeing its -object.</p> - -<p>The first Sunday that he let pass without a -visit, he was very nervous all the evening, and -going to bed early made a vain effort to sleep. -What a—qualified—fool he was, and yet how -he did love that girl! He got up and read -Heine by way of disillusion, and opened the -book at the quatrain,</p> - -<p class="mid noindent">“Wer zum ersten Male liebt<br /> - Sei’s auch glücklos, ist ein Gott;<br /> - Aber wer zum zweiten Male<br /> - Glücklos liebt, Der ist ein Narr.”</p> - -<p>How good! How very good! And Vane laid -the book down with much applause.</p> - -<p>Decidedly the best way to win Miss Thomas -was to give her her own way. He could leave -her to her own devices for a time. If she loved -Ten Eyck, there was nothing to be done by -seeing her; if she did not, a little delay would -do no harm. If she loved nobody, his chance -was assured.</p> - -<p>This settled, Vane went to bed with the easy -mind of a general who has planned the morning’s -march.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX">IX.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">V</span>ANE’S strategy was doubtless perfect; but -in the morning he found a note sealed -and superscribed in a charmingly pretty feminine -hand. “Dear Mr. Vane,” it began, “Miss -Roster’s skating party has been given up. -She begged me to tell you; but, as I have -not seen you, I feel obliged to send you this -note. If you have nothing better to do, why -will not you come that evening? It is so -long since we have read together.—Winifred -Thomas.”</p> - -<p>“Now,” thought Vane, “why should Miss -Roster send word to him by Miss Thomas?” -He felt that he could not be positively rude, so -at eight in the evening he presented himself. -Miss Thomas was apparently alone in the -house. She was sitting in the parlor, with no -light but that of the fire, into which she was -looking with her deep blue eyes; her face was -pale, except that one cheek was rosy with the -heat, imperfectly screened from the flame with -her fan. She received Vane coldly; he drew up a -chair, noticing, as he did so, her foot, which was -covered only with a slipper and a thin web of -open-work black stocking, and was very pretty.</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas seemed <i>distraite</i> and depressed; -he had never seen her in that mood before, -and sought in vain to draw her into conversation. -She answered only in monosyllables and -still looked dreamily into the fire. Vane felt -as if he had unwittingly offended her. Finally, -just as he rose to go—</p> - -<p>“Why are you so strange to-night?”</p> - -<p>“I—I?” stammered Vane.</p> - -<p>“Yes.” She lifted her small head and -looked full at him. It seemed as if there was -a tear lost somewhere in the depth of her eyes. -Vane became conscious that he was a brute, -and thought for the first time, odd as it may -seem, of the walk which he had asked her to -take the Sunday before. He had forgotten the -walk entirely.</p> - -<p>“I had suddenly to go to Pittsburg.” This -was true; but he had returned on the Saturday. -And yet he felt that he must say something, -if only to suppress his growing inclination -to take her hand in his.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” said she wonderingly. -They were both sitting; Vane staring -at her helplessly.</p> - -<p>“Why, when I broke our engagement to go -to walk——” Truly he was floundering more -than ever.</p> - -<p>“Oh! were we engaged to go to walk?”</p> - -<p>A pretty mess he had made of it indeed.</p> - -<p>“I am only too glad you have forgotten,” he -said; and then rising, with an awkward bow, -he got himself and his shattered reputation for -<i>savoir faire</i> out of the room. After putting on -his overcoat, he turned back to the threshold -of the parlor. “Will you go to walk next Sunday?” -he asked bluntly.</p> - -<p>“I must go to church that afternoon. I am -so sorry.”</p> - -<p>Vane bowed again, and took his departure -more piqued than he was willing to acknowledge. -As he went down the steps he heard a -few chords upon the piano. It was the beginning -of the love-song from Francesca da -Rimini. After all, he thought, why should he -be offended? She had behaved just as he -should have wished her to. He could hardly -expect her to acknowledge that she had waited -for him in vain. How pretty she had looked -in the firelight!</p> - -<p>The next Sunday, about sunset, as he and -John were returning from a long walk in the -country, two figures came out of a small -church on Sixth Avenue, well known for the -excellence of its music. Miss Thomas was -one, the other John recognized as Ten Eyck. -She did not seem to see them, but the two -walked rapidly ahead of them the length of -the block, and then turned down a side street. -Vane pretended to be wholly unconscious of -the scene. John alone gave a grunt of surprise. -And for two weeks or more Vane -treated Miss Thomas with alternate neglect -and familiarity when he met her in society; -the former when he found it possible to avoid -her, the latter when he was necessarily thrown -with her. One night at a german she gave -him a favor. Vane, after dancing with her, -felt obliged, in common politeness, to talk with -her for a few moments. He sought refuge -in that sort of clumsy pleasantry which our -English models have taught us to call chaff; -she said nothing, but looked at him wonderingly, -with large troubled eyes. She seemed -as if grieved at his manner and too proud to -reproach him with it. Could she really love -the man? thought Vane. How could she? He -felt as if the suspicion did her an injury. -Vane’s heart melted to her as he came home -that night. He had mentally judged her as -he would have judged a woman in one of his -cynical French comedies. He had treated her -like a character in a seventeenth century memoir. -And how much above such judgment -was this sweet American girl! She was fond -of her friends, and true to them, and frank to -him, so that he saw that she cared for him. -What did she know of the world, or of older -societies, or the women in his wicked French -memoirs? She lived in new, pure, honest -America; not in the chronicles of the <i>Œil-de-bœuf</i>. -And Vane felt that the best amends he -could make was to ask her to become his wife. -When he hinted this intention to Haviland -that philosopher, for the first and only time in -his life, improvised a couplet:</p> - -<p class="mid noindent">“Jamais la femme ne varie,<br /> -Bien fol est toujours qui s’y fie.”</p> - -<p>Having got off this gâtha, John retired to -his pipe, and became, like a Hindoo god, impassive, -ugly, and impenetrable.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="X">X.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">F</span>OR some weeks Vane rested satisfied with -the conclusions arrived at in the last chapter. -It was so satisfactory to have made such -a resolve; and besides, there was no cause for -hastening the event. There was singularly -little impulse in his inclination. Most certainly, -he meant to put his fate to the test; -but not at point-blank range. Vane was cool -enough to proceed warily; and he still clung -sufficiently to the precepts of his French authorities -in matters feminine to know better -than that. For a repulse always puts the garrison -on its guard, and doubles the difficulty of -investment; and a woman’s heart should be -taken by siege, not assault. Other supplies -should be cut off; and then the citadel be undermined -and sapped in a quiet way. The -attacker should imply boundless admiration, -without actually committing himself to a more -particular sentiment—flirtation from behind -earthworks—and so, without being exposed to -rebuff, gradually surround her with such an -atmosphere of incense that at last it becomes -indispensable to her; and, after one or two -futile sallies, she falls before his arms. This -is the wisdom of the serpent; but Vane knew -that it was never wasted on a woman, however -sweet and dovelike; if you wish her to take -your attentions seriously, you should make her -think they are not serious. And if Vane was -willing to marry, he had no mind to be refused. -When Vane expounded these theories to John, -the latter seemed relieved.</p> - -<p>A lover in New York is at no loss for opportunities -to win, if he has leisure to woo; but -Vane suffered many chances to pass by without -improving them. Perhaps he was dissatisfied -with his love, with himself, with his life -as he found it; he remembered, like all boys, -trying to live as if he were the hero of a novel; -now it was altogether too difficult not to live -like the hero of a comedy. Vane abhorred the -eighteenth century, and all its belongings; but -it seemed to him that the world around him, -and himself as part of it, were subjects apter -to a Congreve than a Homer.</p> - -<p>All the more, he sought to wind his affections -around their object; he would not admit -to himself that there was something wanting -even in her. But the winter was nearly over -before he resolved to take any decisive step; -and Miss Thomas had been growing prettier -every day. Mrs. Levison Gower was to -give a sleigh-ride. They were to drive in a -procession of single sleighs, and stop at some -one’s country house for an hour’s skating. -This opportunity would be most propitious; -and Vane decided that Miss Baby Thomas -should be his companion.</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas seemed really very sorry. -Vane admitted this afterwards, when he sought -to reason himself out of his consequent ill-humor. -But she was already engaged to ride -that day in Mr. Wemyss’s sleigh. It was so unfortunate, -and she was so much disappointed! -Vane, however, decided to postpone his proposal -of marriage to some other occasion; so he -drove out sedately with the young and beautiful -chaperone. With her he made no sufficient -effort at flirtation, and Mrs. Gower -never forgave him the omission.</p> - -<p>The ice was very good; and Vane was disporting -himself meditatively in one corner of -the pond when Miss Thomas whirled by him -on the “outer edge.” Miss Thomas was a -beautiful skater; and, as she passed, she -stretched out a crooked cane as if inviting him -to join her. Vane had no desire to refuse; -and in a minute the two were rolling along in -strong, sweeping curves, the girl’s blue eyes -gleaming with excitement beneath their long -black lashes. Her eyes had the still, violet -blue of a cleft in a glacier; Vane could not -help looking into them once or twice. The -ice was broken.</p> - -<p>Neither of them had much to say; but for -an hour or more they skated together. The -crooked stick, proving too long, was soon discarded; -and they skated hand in hand. On -the shore, Wemyss was devoting himself to the -matron. He could not skate.</p> - -<p>Finally, the signal of recall was given. Miss -Thomas made no movement in the direction -of the return, and Vane was naturally too polite -to make the first. They could see Mrs. -Gower at the other end of the pond, skurrying -about, like a young hen after her chickens. -Suddenly Miss Thomas discovered that they -ought to go back; but when they returned to -the shore they were the last of the party, and -had the log, which served the purpose of a -seat, to themselves. Vane stooped to take off -his companion’s skates, and in shaking them -free Miss Thomas brought the blade of one -across his hand with some force, causing a -slight scratch on the back of his finger. She -gave a little cry of horror, and then, as the -finger bled profusely, pulled out her own -handkerchief, and, before Vane could prevent -her, bound it around the wound.</p> - -<p>“It was my fault,” said she. “You can -give the handkerchief to me when we next -meet.”</p> - -<p>As they walked back, Vane, dropping behind, -unwound the handkerchief and put it in -an inside pocket, then drew his glove hastily -over the scratch, which had already stopped -bleeding.</p> - -<p>Going home, Mrs. Gower found Vane much -more interesting. The heat of the noon had -melted the snow, so that the sleighing was not -good, and it was dusk before they got into the -city. But when Vane left Mrs. Gower’s house -for his own dinner, the sleigh which contained -Miss Thomas had not returned, though Wemyss -was there, having driven back with Miss Bellamy. -Coming to his rooms, Vane unfolded -the little handkerchief and kissed it; and that -night, when he went to sleep, it was in his -hand beneath the pillow. In the morning, he -looked at it. It was a cheap little thing -enough, made of pieces of linen or muslin -stuff, looking like dolls’ clothes sewed together, -but giving the effect of lace at a distance.</p> - -<p>Vane went to a store on Broadway and purchased -a handkerchief of the same size, of old -point lace, and the same afternoon called upon -Miss Thomas. “I have brought you your -handkerchief,” said he, giving her the one he -had bought, folded up. “I am very much -obliged to you for lending to me.”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas took it, looked at it for a -moment, then at him and thanked him. “It -was of no consequence,” said she. “It was an -old one.” Vane went home, much excited, perhaps -a trifle disturbed in mind. Such a rapid -victory had hardly been foreseen by him. She -had taken from him, as a present, a valuable -bit of lace; which must certainly mean that -she would take him, if he offered himself. -And he was not quite sure, now that the prospect -was so near, that he really wished to -marry Miss Baby Thomas. He liked her immensely, -and she certainly amused him more -than any other girl he knew; but he was not -quite sure that he wished to marry—at all. -Now that the prize was within his reach, he -shrank back a little from plucking it. Four -years ago, in Brittany, Vane had felt himself -an old man; but now it seemed that he was -“ower young to marry yet.” These thoughts -gave him much trouble; and in the meantime -he abstained from further complication by not -calling on Miss Thomas, and, at the same time, -subjected himself to much self-analysis. Could -he honestly be content to go through life with -this girl by his side? He knew enough of life -to know that it mattered very little how often -a man made a fool of himself, if he did not do -so on the day when he got married. Now Miss -Thomas was certainly a very nice, sweet girl—but -did he love her enough to marry her? -The outcome of his deliberation was in the -affirmative; but—another but.</p> - -<p>Ten days had elapsed since he gave her the -handkerchief, when finally, one Sunday afternoon, -he called to see her. He half expected -that he should ask her to marry him. But he -did not do so. When the call was nearly over, -she excused herself for a moment, and, going -up-stairs, returned with the handkerchief in her -hand. “You have brought back the wrong -handkerchief,” said she. Vane started with a -shock of surprise he could not repress.</p> - -<p>“I—I brought the wrong one?” he said -awkwardly.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“It was the one you gave me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! it was not. This one is real lace.”</p> - -<p>“The—the washerwoman must have made a -mistake.”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas said nothing.</p> - -<p>“You must keep it all the same, Miss -Thomas.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot keep what belongs to other -people,” said she unappreciatively.</p> - -<p>Vane bit his lips. “I—I will make it right -with the washerwoman,” said he clumsily.</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas’s look was more hopelessly -unsympathetic than ever; and, folding the bit -of lace, she laid it on the table by his elbow.</p> - -<p>“The fact is,” Vane went on, with a pretended -burst of confidence, “the one you lent -me was ruined: so I did get this one instead. -Please take it.”</p> - -<p>“It is much more valuable than mine,” said -she coldly.</p> - -<p>“Please take it,” said Vane again, with the -iteration of a school-boy.</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas began to take offence.</p> - -<p>“How can you expect me to do such a thing?” -said she, rising as if to dismiss him. Evidently -a bold push was necessary. He took the bit -of lace and threw it quickly into the open fire, -counting on the feminine instinct which would -not suffer her to see old lace destroyed. With -a little cry, Miss Thomas bent down and -pulled it from the coals.</p> - -<p>“Let it burn,” said he, rising and putting -on his gloves. “If you do not want it, I am -sure I do not.” And he silently refused to -take the handkerchief, pretending to busy -his hands with his hat and cane. “Good-by,” -said he.</p> - -<p>“Good-by,” replied Miss Thomas, coldly, laying -the handkerchief back on the centre-table.</p> - -<p>When Vane got to the hall he looked at -her a moment in turning to open the front -door. She was standing before the fire with -a heightened color in her face, whether of a -blush or anger he could not tell.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XI">XI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">V</span>ANE went home much discontented with -himself. He had not only behaved like -an ass, but he had made a blunder. He had -gone much further than he meant to in seeking -not to go so far. And he found that he loved -her more than he thought, now that he had -displeased her. He wanted diversion that -night, and did not know what to do. Miss -Thomas was his usual diversion. John was -away. Finally, after dinner, he happened -into Wallack’s theatre—it was the interval -between the first and second acts. The first -person that he saw was Miss Thomas, and a -young man in evening dress was seated next -her. Vane paid little attention to the play, -and at the end of the second act he went out -without speaking to her.</p> - -<p>This was simply incredible! Vane could -not conceive of it. It was a pitch of innocence -beyond the range of imagination of a man -educated in France. This was America with a -vengeance. It must be that she did not care -what people said. Could she know that bets -were made at the club upon the state of her -own affections and the sincerity of her admirers? -Vane was much offended. He was -angry with her for her own sake. At first he -thought he would go and tell her so; then he -reflected that the affair of the handkerchief -would put him in rather a false position, and, -after all, she was not worth the trouble. For -the present, at least, he would not go near her.</p> - -<p>The next night Vane went to a “german” -at Mrs. Haviland’s. Miss Thomas was there -dancing with Mr. Wemyss. She received him -very pleasantly. He danced with her once or -twice, and then sat down beside her, Wemyss -not coming back. Miss Thomas was dressed -in a white, cloudy dress, with sprays of violet -and smilax. A wreath of the green vine was -in her black hair, and she had a large bouquet -of the violets in her hand, nearly the color of -her eyes. The dress was cut low to a point -in front and behind, showing the superb poise -of her small head upon her neck. Whoever -had sent her flowers must have known what -her dress was to be, or he could not have sent -her the violets to match.</p> - -<p>When Vane left, he had made an appointment -for a walk the next fine afternoon. She -had said nothing about the handkerchief. -Vane feared, every morning, to find the parcel -containing it at his rooms, but it was not sent -back. He was encouraged by this, and began -to make excuses to himself for her being at -the theatre. This still gave him much anxiety, -and he half decided that he would speak to -her about it.</p> - -<p>At last there came a fine day for the walk, -and Vane called at her house at four. He had -also called one day before, but she had complained -that it was too cloudy and looked like -rain. This day he found her ready. They -went up Fifth Avenue to Fifty-ninth Street; -then he persuaded her to go into the park. -She fascinated him that afternoon. There -was something peculiarly feminine about Miss -Thomas. Although her hair was black, it was -not coarse and lustrous, but very fine and soft, -dead black in color. A soft, creamy dress -hung lovingly about her figure. She talked -much about herself in a sisterly sort of way. -Vane felt a desire to protect her. She had a -gentle way of yielding, of trusting to him, of -allowing him to persuade her to continue the -walk. They sat down a moment on a wooden -bench among some seringa-bushes; above -them were the branches of an oak just leafing -out, swaying in the wind and casting changing -flecks of light and shade upon the gravel path -and the folds of her gown. There were soft -lights in her face, and her eyes were like two -blue gentians.</p> - -<p>“Miss Thomas, I have a question to ask -you,” began Vane, suddenly. “You will promise -not to be offended?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said she innocently, opening her -eyes wider.</p> - -<p>“Are you engaged to be married?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said she almost instantly, as if without -reflecting. Then she blushed violently, -and silently rose to go home.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XII">XII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">V</span>ANE wished himself at the bottom of the -lake, if that ornamental piece of water -were deep enough to drown. It seemed like -one of those foolish things one does in a nightmare, -without being able to prevent it. Now -first he saw how impossible it was to go on -and talk to her—to preach a sermon to her—as -he had thought he intended. It would mortally -offend her if she were not mortally offended -already. What right had he to criticise -her conduct, particularly when criticism would -certainly imply disapproval? With all his reproach -came a glow of satisfaction. She was -certainly not in love with any one, she had answered -so instantly. Then with this thought -came the sting again that he had wounded -her.</p> - -<p>“I—I saw you at the theatre the other -night.”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas remained silent.</p> - -<p>“Were you not at the theatre with Mr. Ten -Eyck?” persisted Vane.</p> - -<p>“I was at the theatre with my brother,” replied -Miss Thomas, icily. “Mr. Ten Eyck sat -in his seat for a few moments, I believe. Will -you stop that car, if you please, it is getting so -late.”</p> - -<p>Vane did so with an ill grace. He had -counted on the walk home to alter her impressions, -and now this opportunity was lost. -They took seats and sat for several blocks in -silence. Vane looked at her covertly, and saw -that the flush of indignation had given place -to pallor, and that she looked grieved. He -could have wrung his own neck.</p> - -<p>Coming finally to her door, he felt that he -must say something. He stood a moment on -the stoop. Then, “Miss Thomas, please forgive -me,” he said gravely. She hesitated a moment.</p> - -<p>“Are you offended?” he added, for the sake -of something to say. “Pray forgive me. I -had a reason for asking, and an excuse.”</p> - -<p>“I might forgive you,” she said, with her -hand on the door, “but it would have been -better for you not to have said it.” She -opened the door and went into the house, -leaving Vane on the threshold with a distinct -impression that she was going to cry.</p> - -<p>He walked along, mechanically, in the direction -of his rooms, feeling his cheeks burn. -That he had bungled—that he had committed -a social gaucherie, he knew well enough; but -what troubled him more than this was that -he had given her real cause for offence, he had -hurt her. If she could only know what pain -this thought brought to him! Fool that he -was, he had worn his clumsy, jejune mask of -cynicism, and had not once shown to her his -truer self. He was more at fault than the -world was; and she was not of the world, and -he had blamed her for it.</p> - -<p>He stopped on the corner of Fifth Avenue -and Thirty-third Street, half-way down the -hill, and looked at his watch. It was nearly -six. He did not wish to go back to his rooms; -he had no engagement that evening. As he -stood irresolute, he took off his hat to Mrs. -Gower, who passed by in her carriage. Then -he resolved to go down to his office and work -that evening, as was his habit when he wished -to banish from his mind a too persistent -thought. He walked back through the cross-street, -to get the railway on Sixth Avenue, -and still thinking how Miss Thomas was -probably crying over his rudeness, locked in -her own room. How <i>could</i> he have done it! -As he approached her house, he felt almost -tempted to go in again; but the front door -opened slowly, and, after a momentary pause, -he saw Ten Eyck come out, walk down the -steps and rapidly away. Vane grew very -angry with himself and her; until he reflected -that she could not possibly have -known that Ten Eyck was coming that afternoon. -And, indeed, he probably had not been -let in.</p> - -<p>None the less did Vane work savagely -through the evening, taking a lonely dinner at -the “down-town” Delmonico’s. At about midnight -he left his office and walked all the way -up to his room, smoking, and thinking what -he could do to win Miss Thomas’s forgiveness. -The gas was burning low in his study, and he -saw a square white packet among the letters -lying on his table. He felt that shuddering -weakness in the loins, as if all within were -turned to water, which he had learned to recognize -as the work of that first apprehension -of a serious misfortune which comes a moment -before the mind has fully grasped it. He sank -upon the sofa with a long breath, and looked -at the letter silently for several minutes. It -was a neat note, beautifully sealed and delicately -addressed; like all her notes, bearing no -evidence of a servant’s dirty pocket. He -opened it, fearing to find in it the lace handkerchief -without a word; but no, there was a -note with it:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="noindent">“<span class="smcap">My dear Mr. Vane</span>—<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I send you back your handkerchief. It is still a -little burned; but perhaps you can make some use of it. -I ought to have returned it sooner, but was having it -mended.</p> - -<p class="center">“Sincerely yours,</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Winifred Thomas</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>So! thought Vane; it was all over now. He -had bungled it shamefully.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIII">XIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">H</span>E went to sleep as soon as he could—which -was not very soon; and woke up, -with a sob, from a dream in which they were -both very miserable. It was an hour earlier -than his usual time for rising, and, as he went -into the park, the birds were singing quite as -they might have sung in the country.</p> - -<p>On considering her note critically, he did -not think it so hopeless as it had seemed in -the night. And again he repaired to his office. -Business was very good at this time, and Vane -was rapidly becoming rich.</p> - -<p>He waited many days for a chance to speak -to her; and finally the chance arrived, at an -evening party. Curiously enough, he was -more afraid of her in a simple morning frock, -worn in her own house, with the little edging -of white lace around the throat, than in evening -dress, in all the splendor of her woman’s -beauty. He did not like her so well with bare -neck, and bare arms, and a sweeping cloud of -white about her, and white satin slippers. She -was more like the other women one could -meet in the world. She looked at him coldly; -but none the less did he determine to speak to -her. Her partner left her at once; and Vane -led her into the embrasure of a window.</p> - -<p>“I want you to forgive me my question of -the other afternoon.”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas made no answer.</p> - -<p>“You would, if you knew my excuse.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what possible excuse there can -be,” she said, gravely.</p> - -<p>“There is one—and the best of all excuses,” -he added, in a lower tone.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand you.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sure?” said Vane, with a low -laugh.</p> - -<p>She met his eyes, calmly, for an appreciable -duration of time. “I wish you would tell me -what it is,” she went on seriously.</p> - -<p>“Some time, perhaps, I will.”</p> - -<p>“Why not now?”</p> - -<p>Vane shook his head. “I will tell you -when you take back the handkerchief.”</p> - -<p>“I shall never take back the handkerchief.”</p> - -<p>“You do not know how persistent I am. I -shall ask you every week until you do.”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas slightly moved her shoulders. -He could have fallen at her feet then and -there. It was dark behind the curtain, all -except her eyes, and she looked at him almost -tenderly, and made no effort to end the conversation. -Vane felt that he was very deeply -in love with her.</p> - -<p>“Do you really wish to know the reason -why I asked you that question?” he said, -hastily. “Do you ask me now?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I shall ask you some time,” she -said, dropping her eyes.</p> - -<p>Vane bit his lip, and clenched his fingers, -which had been dangerously near hers. At -first he did not know what to reply.</p> - -<p>“As for the handkerchief, you shall surely -take it some time. I will give it to you when -you are married.“</p> - -<p>She blushed deeply. “Thank you,“ she -said, “I would rather have a new one, then. -But it is time for me to go home—or—I think -I should like an ice first. Will you get me -one?”</p> - -<p>When Vane returned, two or three men -were about her. She took the ice, but, after -tasting it, put it aside indifferently. “I really -think I must be going now,“ she said, giving -her arm to one of her companions.</p> - -<p>Vane was determined not to be outdone, so -he went to find her carriage, and had the -pleasure of shutting the door himself; the -two other men standing by. “Good night,” -said he, in a low tone. She made no reply -until he had got back to the sidewalk; then, -“Good night, every one!” she called out as -the horses sprang away, restive with the cold. -Vane went back to the supper-room to get -a glass of champagne, and then walked home.</p> - -<p>After this, he decided to leave the course of -events with her. He had surely told her, as -plainly as a man could tell a woman, that he -loved her. He had also told her that he would -ask her to marry him whenever she wished—whenever -she would forgive him a rude question -for which his love was the best possible -excuse. So two months passed without his -speaking to her seriously. But he felt well -assured that he loved her.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIV">XIV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">O</span>NE day in June, Vane sat in his office -with two notes open on the desk before -him. One was from Mrs. Levison Gower, inviting -him to make one of a moonlight picnic -party. They were to be conveyed up the -Hudson in Mr. Gower’s steam-launch, land -just above Yonkers, take possession of a grove, -and have dinner there for no other reason than -that they might dine with much more convenience -and propriety on the deck of the yacht. -The other note before Vane was from Dr. -Kérouec, in Brittany, announcing a serious -change in the condition of his mother.</p> - -<p>He had already decided to take the next -steamer for Havre. He had been making his -preparations all the day; but for some reason -had postponed answering Mrs. Gower’s note. -And now he was face to face with a strong desire -to see Miss Thomas once more before he -went away. And, after all, why should he not -go? His mother had been ill for so many -years, and he felt that she would still be ill -for so many years more; and Mrs. Gower’s -party was to be the day before the departure -of his steamer. He knew that Miss Thomas -would be there. He had quite decided not to -call at her house again; he had not called -there for the last two months; but he longed -for a glimpse of her face to take away with -him. It might be so long before he came -back, and so many things might happen while -he was gone.</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas was the first person Vane -saw, standing by the entrance, as he went on -board the yacht. She was evidently looking -for some one; but when she saw Vane, she -turned away. Vane kept up a rapid conversation -with his hostess until a lady arrived -whom he knew, when he walked with her to the -other side of the yacht. Meantime he could -see that Miss Thomas was covertly watching -his movements, and talking with no one. Her -eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went; -but he was careful not to get within speaking -distance.</p> - -<p>After many delays, caused by languid guests, -late hampers, and the vacillations of Mrs. -Gower herself, the little steamer cast off and -proceeded up the river. Mrs. Gower took -command in the yacht, extending her jurisdiction, -as Vane observed, quite to the limit of -the pilot’s politeness. At first, owing to the -smells of the manufacturing establishments -which lined the river, and divers distasteful -sights about the wharves, but little attention -was paid to the scenery; but when the city -was left behind, and the western shore grew -bolder, Nature was rewarded with all the adjectives -of feminine enthusiasm. Vane heard -less of this, however, as conversation grew -more general. When due appreciation of the -Hudson’s beauties had been shown, the company -broke up into groups of two or three -camp-stools, and every little clump fell to discussing -its neighbors. Here and there was a -group of two—a male and female—oblivious -of neighbors and discussing each other. The -Palisades looked on in silence. It seemed to -Vane that the occasion was only saved -from insignificance by the presence of Miss -Thomas.</p> - -<p>When they touched shore at the grove appointed -for the picnic, most of the ladies and -gentlemen, eager to land as if it had been an -ocean voyage, crowded to the gangway. Mrs. Gower -felt it her duty to show the way, and -skilfully forced a passage through her guests, -Vane, who was at that moment busied with -the duty of protecting her, following in her -wake. Her rapid motion caused a sort of eddy -in which Vane moved behind her without -much effort; so that, looking about him, he -saw Miss Thomas beside him. Her companion -was a young man with an eye-glass, looking -like a student in college, the consciousness of -his own merits continually at war with the -world’s estimate of them; so that the unceasing -struggle of a proper self-assertion left him -little breath for words. In one of the pauses -of his conversation, Miss Thomas turned rapidly -to Vane.</p> - -<p>“Are you never going to speak to me -again?”</p> - -<p>“Have you forgiven me yet?”</p> - -<p>This little interchange of questions was so -quick that it hardly could have been noticed -by any one. Miss Thomas turned back to her -companion before he had even time to miss -her attention; and indeed his mind was fully -occupied in grappling for his next remark; -while Vane was incontinently swept over the -gang-plank in the vortex of Mrs. Gower.</p> - -<p>She certainly looked very pretty that day, -thought Vane, as he walked up the hill with -the latter lady; but he was sure now that he -had no mind to be refused by her. Better -even the present than that. She had on another -soft, clinging dress, of ivory white, which -only lent an added charm to her skin of whiter -ivory, the dead black hair, and those wonderful -violet—“Ah—oh, yes,” said Vane to Mrs. -Gower; and then, seeing this lady laugh, -“Yes, very funny—hah!”</p> - -<p>“I was telling you of Mrs. Grayling’s sad -experience in Rome,” said Mrs. Gower, demurely; -“but I fear you were not thinking of -her.”</p> - -<p>Vane vowed to keep a tighter rein on his -thoughts thereafter; and they came to a little -glade in the wood, where the servants were -laying table-cloths on the turf. The dinner -was very gay. Some ladies screamed when -a daddy-longlegs ran into the lobster salad, -but an occasional pine-needle, falling into a -glass of champagne, seemed but to add to its -flavor. It was considered <i>de rigueur</i> to sit -upon the grass; but most of the men found -it very awkward to assume attitudes of any -decorative value, and the college student in -particular was heard to wonder audibly how -the deuce the Romans did it. After the feast, -the company divided itself into couples and -scattered in the woods. Miss Thomas did not -leave the table; and Mrs. Gower felt obliged -to wait for the last. Wemyss stayed with her. -As Vane passed behind Miss Thomas, she -called him to her.</p> - -<p>“I have something to tell you to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Will not some other time do?” said -Vane, “I am getting a glass of wine for Mrs. -Gower.” The girl looked at him, but did not -seem to take offence.</p> - -<p>“I may never tell you, if I do not tell you -to-day,” she answered, seriously, in a low -voice. Vane looked at her surprised; she -bore his gaze for half a second, and then let -her own eyes drop. The student was looking -on with parted lips. “Oh, Mr. Bronson,” said -she, immediately, “I wish you would get me a -glass of champagne—and seltzer, too!” She -said the “too” with an inflection that made it -sound like <i>do</i>.</p> - -<p>The youth departed on his errand; and -Vane also left, saying that he would be back in -a moment; but he was saved a double journey -by observing that some one else had brought -Mrs. Gower her wine and had taken his seat -beside her. Vane returned to Miss Thomas, -passing rapidly over in his mind what had -happened in the four months since he had -asked her that fatal question, and trying to -decide upon a course of action for himself. -She had made no effort to have him speak to -her before to-day. But by her presence the -picnic was quite saved from insignificance.</p> - -<p>“I have come back, Miss Thomas,” he said, -seriously. “What can you have to tell me?”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas looked at the tent, before -which Bronson was standing—waiting for her -seltzer. Most of the guests had left the place, -and the servants were clearing away the dinner. -The moon was just rising.</p> - -<p>“Will you not come for a walk?” said Vane. -Miss Thomas gave him her hand, and he -helped her to her feet. “I am forgetting your -wine,” he said, afterwards. He was ill at ease -and nervous.</p> - -<p>“You know that I never drink wine at parties,” -she answered; and just as Bronson came -back to the place where she had been sitting, -they disappeared in the forest. Bronson had -a long neck supported by a very stiff standing -collar, and when his dignity was compromised -he had a way of throwing back his head and -resting his chin upon the points of his collar. -He did this now, and the Adam’s apple in his -throat worked prominently. Then, after looking -gravely a moment at the seat which had -been Miss Thomas’s, as if to be satisfied that -she had really gone, he drank the champagne -himself and went back to the tent, where he -found a male acquaintance, to whom he proposed -a smoke. “It is such a relief to get -away for a minute from the women,” he murmured, -as he threw himself on the grass and -rolled a cigarette. “By the way, did you see -that little girl I was with? Nice dress, you -know—quiet little thing. Well, by gad, sir, I -believe there’s something up between her and -that fellow Vane.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XV">XV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">A</span>FTER they left the place of the dinner, -Miss Thomas walked on for some time in -silence, and Vane had inwardly resolved not to -be the first to break their peace of mind. The -woods, being part of a private estate, had received -some care. There was no underbrush, -and they were walking in a well-kept path. -The moon was now high enough to make a -play of light among the leafage and to outline -with a silver tracery the smooth twigs and -trunks of the trees before them.</p> - -<p>Vane was silently wondering what Miss -Thomas could mean. He became strangely -self-possessed and cautious, and it occurred to -him that this was the sort of clear-sightedness -a man would have who was gambling and playing -for a very large amount. He thought to -himself that this was just the way fellows usually -got married. Vane had been brought up to -suppose that the proper way to reach a young -lady’s heart, or at least her hand, was through -the judgment of her parents; but, somehow, -this did not seem to be necessary in New -York, certainly not with Miss Thomas; and he -felt that there was a danger of his asking Miss -Thomas, to-night, to become Mrs. Vane. And, -after all, he felt to-night that it was by no -means certain that he wished Mrs. Vane to -have been Miss Baby Thomas.</p> - -<p>The long silence became embarrassing, but -Vane did not quite know what to say, and -Miss Thomas had apparently no desire to say -anything. The path they were in led up to a -low stone wall in a sort of clearing on the side -of the hill, with a distant view of the Hudson. -Vane assisted Miss Thomas over the wall, and -then, getting over it himself, sat down upon it. -The girl sat down beside him. Both looked at -the river.</p> - -<p>“What did you have to say to me?” said -Vane, at last.</p> - -<p>“I wished to tell you that I had forgiven -your question,” Miss Thomas answered in a -low, quiet voice, looking away from him across -the water.</p> - -<p>“Entirely?”</p> - -<p>“Entirely, from the heart.”</p> - -<p>Vane certainly did have a thrill of pleasurable -excitement at this speech. It was the -sort of glow, the tingling feeling about the -waist he had felt when about to mount a -strange horse whose temper he had not tested. -He looked at the girl. She was half sitting, -half leaning, against the wall. Her flowing -dress had caught the sheen of the moon, and -the white figure shone brightly against the -dark leaves. She might have been a naiad or -a wood-nymph, and yet there was a subtle -feminine presence about her. With some girls -you can associate on terms of fellowship, make -companions of them, perhaps even sit on the -fence in the moonlight and talk to them amicably, -as to another man. But you could -never forget that Miss Thomas was a woman.</p> - -<p>“I was really very much hurt,” she said, -“and I think you ought to have begged my -pardon.”</p> - -<p>“I did,” said Vane, “and I told you I had -the best possible excuse.”</p> - -<p>“But you never told me what the excuse -was.” The young man sat on a lower stone -than hers, and, as he looked up to her, the radiance -fell full upon her face, and he saw the -moon reflected in her eyes.</p> - -<p>Why should he doubt this girl? Had he -not been deeply in love with her? And, after -all, had she not borne herself, in all their relations, -as he would have wished her to, as he -would have wished her to be, supposing that -she cared for him? She had often been right -in being offended with him, but she was too -gentle to be long angry—she was lovely in forgiving. -Had he not plainly let her know what -should be the signal for him to declare his -love? Was not this as much encouragement -as any woman would give? Strangely enough, -now that he was sure of her he almost doubted -of himself.</p> - -<p>“Do you really ask me to tell you of my -excuse?” said Vane, and he felt a little -ashamed of himself for the prevaricating question. -“Do you not know?”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas said nothing, but made a slight -motion of her dress. Vane bit his lip, and felt -that this was cowardly. The moon had gone -into a cloud, but he fancied, from the position -of her head, that she was looking at him with -her large eyes. Her dress seemed to have a -light of its own, which made her form still -visible in the darkness. Suddenly he pictured -to himself the way his conduct would look to -her if she really cared for him, and he felt -sure that she did, and he knew that she attracted -him more than any woman he had ever -met.</p> - -<p>“Because I love you, Winifred,” said Vane, -and he laid his hand on hers.</p> - -<p>“Oh—h,” sighed the girl with a sort of -shudder, as if he had given her pain, “I am so -sorry.” Vane caught his breath. “Oh, I am -so sorry!” Vane pressed her little hand convulsively. -“Oh, I never thought it was this. -Why did you tell me? Why did you not leave -it unsaid? Now I shall lose you for always.” -Her voice broke in a sob.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that you will not marry me? -Do you mean that you do not love me? You -must know how I have loved you.” Vane covered -her hand with kisses. Miss Thomas -seemed to be unconscious of this, but went on -in a sort of cry, asking him to forgive her. -“Do you mean that there is no hope?” said -he, gravely.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! none. You know how much I like -you, but I can never marry you. You will forget -all this, will you not?” There was a long -silence between them, but her hand still lay in -his. Meantime the sky had grown black in -front of them. Vane was straining his eyes to -see her face. There was a flash of lightning, -and he saw that her cheek was wet with tears. -Some large drops of rain came pattering down -among the leaves.</p> - -<p>“We must hurry back,” said Vane suddenly, -dropping her hand. She rose silently -and followed him along the path. In a few -moments they got back to the place of supper. -They were the first to arrive, but in a moment -they heard voices in the shrubbery.</p> - -<p>“You will try and forget this evening, will -you not?” said Miss Thomas, hurriedly. -“Try and be as if it had never happened. -And oh, tell me, are you very unhappy?”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry,” said he, “but I am -going to-morrow to France.” Miss Thomas -made a movement of surprise, but there was -no time for more to be said, as the thunderstorm -was really upon them, and every one was -hastening to the river. On the boat Vane -found Miss Thomas a seat, and then went -alone to the bow. He was very unhappy. He -had not fancied that he would be so unhappy. -He was very much disappointed, and, perhaps, -a little angry. Coming up from the wharf in -New York he was, as a matter of course, put in -the same carriage with Miss Thomas. There -were two other people with them, and Vane -endeavored to act light comedy, but was not -well seconded by the girl herself, who was silent -and very pale. They went to Mrs. Gower’s -house for supper, but all the women were -wet, and most of the men ill-tempered, and the -party broke up early. Vane took his leave at -once, and went back to his lodgings to finish -his packing for the voyage. As soon as he -had done he went immediately to bed and fell -asleep late in the night, having as a latest -waking thought the consciousness that he had -for many months been making a fool of himself.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XVI">XVI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HIS was still the most marked flavor in -his self-consciousness the next morning, -and when he rode to the wharf, when he entered -the cabin decked with flowers as if for a -funeral, even when they steamed out to sea, -the bitter aftertaste of folly did not leave him. -He was in the mid-Atlantic before his self-communings -began to be mitigated by his -sense of humor. Truly there had been no -need to consider quite so nicely his duties to -Miss Thomas. He had thought himself too -far involved to retreat gracefully without a -proposal. He had felt compelled to precipitate -matters. He had feared to wound her -deeply otherwise, though conscious, at the -time, that his offer was rather magnanimous -than passionate. He had had a continual fear -of compromising her, too old-fashioned a reverence -for woman, too European a sense of -honor. He had done her too much honor. -Apparently she had not considered him in so -serious a light, this American.</p> - -<p>That he had been a most unconscionable ass -Vane knew very well. This conviction, however, -is a sentiment we can easily bear while it -is unshared by others, and, fortunately, none -of Vane’s friends were so clearly convinced of -it. None of his friends knew much about this -affair.</p> - -<p>After all, he had almost given a sigh of relief -when the welcome words of freedom came -to her lips. He was well out of it. It had -been a very sharp little skirmish, and he was -not sorry that he had escaped in good order, -heart and honor whole. At this point Vane -again appeared to himself as an ass, but he -only smiled at the apparition. Fortunate affairs -those, which vanish with a laugh! So -he dismissed the matter from his mind.</p> - -<p>When Vane landed at Havre the whole thing -seemed like a dream. There was the familiar -chalk cliff and the wide estuary, and the -people seated on little, iron, painted chairs, in -the cafés, reading <i>Figaro</i>, just as he had left -them, with nothing changed but the date in -the newspaper. A certain flippancy lurks in -the sky of France, or was the flippancy <i>là-bas</i> -in America? Vane was not quite sure.</p> - -<p>He had had no letter from the doctor since -that first one received in New York. Indeed -there had been no way for one to have reached -him before his arrival in Havre, and he was not -sure that the doctor knew in which steamer -he was crossing. But Vane was anxious to get -to Rennes. Instead of going up one side of -the river and down the other by rail, he decided -to make a cut across the country, so he -took the ferry for Trouville. The place was -full of people—people such as you find anywhere, -people such as you might see in Newport -or New York—and Vane hastened to -leave it. He found a diligence driven by an -old man in a blue blouse, that took the country -people and their eggs and chickens to and from -the market at Trouville, and retained a seat on -the outside. They left the watering-place at -sunset, and, after driving a few miles along the -beach—the fashionable drive—by the painted -pavilions and villas, they struck inland through -the grass uplands still fragrant with the hay.</p> - -<p>I do not want to make anything tragic of -Vane’s arrival at Rennes. It was hardly that -to him. He had taken the midnight mail from -Caen after a six hours’ journey in the sweet -July evening; and when he arrived in Rennes -in the morning his mother was dead and had -been buried, and the priests in the great cathedral, -even then, were saying masses for her -soul. The old physician, like few physicians, -but like all old Bretons, was an ardent Catholic, -and had sought to secure to his patient -one surreptitious chance of salvation before -his heretic friend arrived. “Yes, my son,” -said he, “at the last she died, <i>tout doucement</i>, it -is now three weeks. She never recovered herself, -though I had the abbé with her and the -Presence by her side. She never knew you or -me, thou dost remember, and at the end she -died silently, and spoke not at all. Ah! mon -pauvre ami, quelle sainte femme!” cried the -doctor, forgetting that he had never known -Mrs. Vane in her right mind.</p> - -<p>The masses, thought Vane, would do no -harm, and he stayed two or three weeks with -Dr. Kérouec in his old house near Rennes.</p> - -<p>The doctor, though growing old, was very -busy. He had numberless charitable meetings -in the afternoons, and his practice took -up the mornings. His evenings were usually -passed with Vane and the abbé over tric-trac -and boston. The doctor was the head of many -benevolent clubs, “Sociétés de Consommation,” -and such like. He knew to a unit how -many poor people had consumed the society’s -soup, for each of the past forty years, in -Rennes, and seemed to derive much satisfaction -from these figures and their annual increase. -He never spoke again to Vane of the -young lady with the dot, and it turned out -that she had married M. le Vicomte’s son.</p> - -<p>Meantime Vane wandered through the rosy -lanes, and the country came to him with a -sense of rest. Life’s silent woods are so near -its highways, after all! And Vane had been a -boy in this country, and it had a glamour for -him; and, truly, it is a sweet corner in the -world. He had gone out of it into all that was -great and new, and now he came back to it, -like a foot-worn pilgrim, with nothing but his -staff and scrip. And as he thought this, he -was passing a great army of the peasantry, not -all peasantry, for many a lady, too, was walking -amid the wooden shoes. Before the long -procession, among the crucifixes, was carried -the ermine banner of Queen Anne. It was the -annual pilgrimage to Lourdes. He looked after -them curiously, so earnestly they marched, -chanting their simple aves and their litanies to -St. Anne of Auray. But they did not walk to -Gascony, but only to the railway, whence they -went by special train.</p> - -<p>Vane did not feel deeply his mother’s death. -Indeed it hardly seemed that she could have -died so lately; it was rather as if she had -been dead many years. All the old seemed to -have faded away out of his life, and everything -new was rather unreal. As for Baby -Thomas, she was either forgotten completely or -dismissed with a slighting half-memory. The -older love was as much in his mind and its ghost -was as real a figure as this memory of yesterday. -He walked over to Monrepos one afternoon -when the doctor had a meeting at his -house. The place was rented by an English -family, and some stout girls were playing lawn -tennis, while a comely youth, lying lazily on -the grass, looked on critically over a short -pipe. Vane sat on the walk and began to poke -pebbles with his stick again. He had succeeded; -and the result was emptiness. Why -could not this poor sordid success have come -sooner,—and his father, and so his mother, -might have been alive to-day.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XVII">XVII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">W</span>HEN he got home (Dr. Kérouec’s house -he called <i>home</i>) he found two American -letters. One was a business letter, but on -the other he recognized the familiar delicate -angles of Miss Thomas’s writing. He was displeased -at this. The note was like some petty -daily duty busying one in an hour of insight—like -the call of the prompter in some stupid -play. It changed all, even to the language of -his thought. What the deuce can she have to -say in a letter? he said to himself. He -thought he had done with her.</p> - -<p>It was characteristic of the man that he -opened the business letter first. It was from -his partner, who was growing old and more -and more reliant on Vane’s judgment, and -it contained an offer of a quarter of a million -from Welsh for their interest in the Bellefontaine -and Pacific Railway. Nearly every -village in the Western States has a Pacific -railway, but comparatively few have reached -the Pacific. Most of them run vaguely in a -westerly direction for a hundred miles or so, -and are managed by an agent of the bondholders. -But the Bellefontaine P. R. was parallel -to another Pacific road, which had at last -been put on a successful basis by Welsh, the -railroad king; and Welsh, who had sold all -his own stock in the successful road, of which -he was president, and who had further agreed -to sell considerably more stock than he owned, -was now desirous of finishing the Bellefontaine -and Pacific, and running it in competition with -his own road. Vane wrote a telegram advising -his partner to demand half a million for their -interest in the Bellefontaine Pacific; and then -he opened Miss Thomas’s letter. Cinerea Lake, -June 25, 187-, it was dated. Now, where and -what, thought Vane, is Cinerea?</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“My dear Mr. Vane,” it ran on, “I think of -you all the day, and often cannot sleep at -night. What can you think of me? If I could -only see you, and feel that you would understand -me; how unhappy you have made me -by what you told me the other evening! I -wish now that I had not told you of my forgiveness, -although I had fully forgiven you in -my heart. I wish I had not spoken it, and then -our friendship would not have been broken. I -feel now that you cannot think of me as your -friend; that you believe I have been intentionally -cruel and unkind to you. Why <i>did</i> you -tell me?</p> - -<p>“I may be doing wrong, wrong again, in writing -to you. I want so much to ask you to come -to see me—you will come, won’t you? when you -come back?</p> - -<p class="right">“W. T. Sunday night.”</p></div> - -<p>“Pish!” said Vane, and he crumpled up the -letter in his pocket and went to walk, in the -late afternoon. Returning, the doctor passed -him in a carriage with footmen, and he met -him on the threshold of his house with an invitation -to visit at Monrepos. The people who -had taken the place were friends of the Greshams, -and had known Mrs. Vane. Of course, -Vane could not go; but the question gave the -needed fillip to his action. He must do something; -he must go somewhere. It is the nature -of man to go somewhere.</p> - -<p>So Vane went to many places that summer. -It is customary in romances for men thus wandering -to be haunted by the thought of something. -Vane was haunted by the thought of -nothing. He did not even think of Miss -Thomas, or, if he thought of her, it was to think -that he thought nothing of her; it is nearly the -same thing. He began by going to Biarritz -and Lourdes, in the path of the pilgrims. At -Lourdes there is a modern, ugly church upon -a hill, with modern, manufactured glass within; -the grotto is underneath, surrounded always -by hundreds of pilgrims—many bedridden, -some dying. The figure of the Virgin is robed -in a white gown, with a blue silk wrapper and -a golden crown. You may buy small replicas -of it in the shops. Vane was duly shocked, as -becomes a Protestant. But one thing he liked -in Lourdes—an expression he heard used by -an old priest in defending the miracle. It was, -he said, an example of the divine foolishness -of the ways of God—the Virgin’s appearance -to a simple child. Vane fancied that there -might be follies that had something in them of -divine and much good sense that smacked only -of the world and the flesh. One got plenty of -good sense in New York.</p> - -<p>When he left Lourdes he went eastward, -through Gascony and Languedoc. The sweet -contentment of the harvest was over the country, -the healthy happiness of nature’s reproduction, -of fruitage and of growing seed. All -earth and nature is happy where it is not conscious. -There was a mighty harvest that year, -and all the people of the country were busied -with it, getting themselves their daily bread, -delivered, for the time, from evil.</p> - -<p>In the south of France there are wide plains -and cornfields, and in them is more than one -great dead city, sleeping like some old warrior -in the peaceful afternoon of his days. The huge -armor of cyclopean walls has served its time, -but still stands out, frowning, from the sea of -yellow grain; the city inside has shrunk within -the walls, and no longer fills them. Such a place -is Aigues Mortes or Carcassonne; nestling in -the arms of fortresses, quiet and still, as if protected -by them and lulled to sleep. Stern in -semblance as these walls may be, they are -pasteboard, like Don Quixote’s helmet; they -date from less noisy days than ours; the mortarless -masonry would rattle to the ground at -the sound of cannon. However, they have been -of use in older days, and it is pleasant, even -now, to wander in the summer by the shadow -of the walls and look out upon the farms and -the green things growing.</p> - -<p>When a New Yorker enters these places, -though, their atmosphere is something deathlike -to him. This merely vegetable growth, -this life of the market-day and harvest, is -deathly dull; and the place itself, as the -phrase is, dead and alive. Possibly, our fabulous -New Yorker visiting these places (if he -visits them we must make him fabulous)—possibly, -he may find things to admire in -them; and the first day, he smokes his cigar -on the battlements and gets along well enough. -But towards the afternoon of the second—when -he has had his morning drive, and his -daughter has brought home her water-color—a -terrible pall of silence, a stealthy, dread -ennui comes over him. Ten to one but he flies -by the night express to the nearest city with an -evening paper—Marseilles, let us say, or Nice. -And there, the daughter finds a band in the -Promenade des Anglais, and her water-color -remains unfinished.</p> - -<p>Vane was conscious of some of this; he had -been long enough in New York for that. -There was little here to interest an American. -But still, it was pleasant; and life was made so -simple an affair! and its outside was so sweet. -How much more life promised to one in -America! He did not distrust the promise; -but a question is the first shade of doubt. -And it really seemed, sometimes, as if, in ceasing -to oppress one another, men had forgotten -how to make each other happy.</p> - -<p>There is much beauty to be found in the -South of France; with a something grander, -more venerable, in these old moulds of life -than one can expect among discordant sects -and syncretisms. Vane enjoyed his summer -to the full, and drank in the sunlight like a -wine, forgetting that he was alone. And -the people seemed so full and sound; with -qualities of their own, and self-supporting -lives; not characters that they assumed, or -tried to make other people give them; nor -with natures colorless, flavorless, save for some -spirit of a poor ambition.</p> - -<p>I do not know what Vane had in his mind -when this last thought so struggled for expression. -He was not ill-natured, nor yet -excessively captious. I suppose he was a -little disappointed with his own country. At -all events, he soon forgot America that summer. -And, after all, he had seen but one unit, -and there are more than fifty millions of them. -Nor, perhaps, did he yet know Miss Thomas—the -unit whom he had known best.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XVIII">XVIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">I</span>N his life, Henry Vane had hitherto been -prospecting. He had sunk several shafts -deep into it, and had worked them honestly, -but he had not had very much success. He had -struck gold; but he had not struck much of -anything else; and gold had now ceased to be -of the first importance. The prime solution -of the difficulty had only been postponed, -in Brittany, that day five years before; it had -not been met. The demands of a human life -had never been liquidated; they had been -funded, temporarily; and now the note was -falling due. He, also, had been getting his -daily bread, and had been delivered from evil.</p> - -<p>But now the old question kept recurring, -and the sphinx would have an answer. The -premature harvest was over (he was in Spain), -forced into sooner ripeness by those passionate -skies; all the country was burned, the herbage -gone, the hot earth cracked and ravined. Only -the yellow oranges were yet to come, that -ripened for the winter; and the orange groves -still gave some verdure to the hills, contrasting -with the sober skies. Along the ridge by the -Mediterranean was a file of graceful palm -trees, swinging their languid arms above the -sea.</p> - -<p>Vane had come along the coast as far as Tarragona; -and he was lying in the shadow of the -lovely hill of Monserrat, thinking. He had -been reading his letters again; and was seeking -to come to some resolve. Nobody in the world -had any claim upon his action now, save only -the old doctor at Rennes. Vane had promised -him a visit every summer.</p> - -<p>He had now no great duty in America; but -still, he felt that he must soon be going back. -For good or evil, his path lay there. And after -all, this island in an eddy of the world, this -shore of the Mediterranean, facing backward -to the East—it was idle staying here. He -smiled to himself as he thought of his own -older thoughts, when he had melodramatically -planned for a war or some forlorn hope in African -discovery. There is something half -shameful, half sad, in seeing one’s own older -folly, one’s boyish vanity and egotism. He -had the necessary money now, but there was -no longer anything attractive to him in the life -of Paris; even dreams of adventure in the Soudan -did not now fire his imagination. Vane -had learned that no American could do without -America, least of all an American with nothing -but his country left. What was he doing on -this shelvage of a bounded sea? this stage setting -for past dramas, where the play was over -and the lights turned out. And Vane thought -to himself of Bellefontaine, Ohio, and the great -future of the West, and eager Wall Street. The -phrases rolled off glibly, like a well-taught -lesson. Still, their being trite did not prevent -their being true. Surely there was something -real, something actual, progressive in America, -to make one’s life worth living there. His -own country aroused his interest, was worth -his study. As for the trivial girl with whom -he had flirted—by whom he had been corrupted—he -had wasted his time over her. -When he went back he would go farther -abroad.</p> - -<p>And return he must. He was wanted in -America. The—the affairs of his bank required -his presence. His old partner, by this time, -was probably wild with irritation and amazement -at his prolonged absence; and there -would be heaps of letters awaiting him at -Seville; a <i>crescendo</i> of increasing urgency, ending -with daily telegrams. Then there was the -sale of the railway. If successful, it meant an -assured fortune, to him and his heirs, if he had -any. And an assured fortune is like a license, -a ticket-of-leave to mould your future as you -will. Vane spent much time in endeavoring -to make this motive sufficient unto himself.</p> - -<p>He took steamer at Valencia and sailed out, -westward, between the Pillars of Hercules. -After all, this was more than Ulysses had ever -dared do, and Ulysses was a hero of epic. -Moreover, like any Irish emigrant, Ulysses -had believed in the blessed Western isles. -But then Ulysses had been in search of a -home; he, Vane, was only in search of a fortune.</p> - -<p>The steamer touched at Cadiz for several -days; and there Vane went ashore and ran up -to Seville, by rail, to get his letters. There -was no other letter from Miss Thomas. Then -he went to Granada, and wandered for an evening -through the Alhambra.</p> - -<p>He had got his New York papers at Seville, -and he spent half an hour or more looking -over the stock quotations, on a hill near the -Generalife. Stocks seemed to be higher than -ever; he had made still more money. While -he was doing this he heard the tinkling of a -zither or guitar, and, looking down, he saw -that the sound proceeded from the courtyard -of what was, apparently, a little inn or venta.</p> - -<p>The broad Vega lay smiling beneath him, -stretching green and fertile to the last low hill -from which the banished Moor had looked -back upon Granada; while around him, in -every street and alley, was the tinkle of the -waters, still rushing from their source in the -snows through the Moor’s aqueducts, which -kept his memory green with the verdure of the -one green spot in Spain. Far above, to the -left of Vane as he sat, were the pale snows of -the Sierra Nevada, amber or ashen in the -brown air of evening. The short work of the -Spanish day was over; the strumming of guitars -was multiplied in the stillness; and, looking -down again, Vane even saw a girl dancing -in the little inn yard.</p> - -<p>There was no other spectator but a swarthy -man in black—her lover, probably—with a -gray hat, and a black scarf about his waist. -He was playing on the zither, and the girl began -to sing some strange Spanish air with -long, chromatic cadences, and a wild, unusual -rhythm.</p> - -<p>They did not know that he was looking on; -and the girl went on with her dance, which no -one else seemed to notice but the lover, who -struck his hands together, now and then, in -applause or to mark the rhythm. Vane -watched with interest. It was curious to -think that she was really dancing, dancing and -singing, and neither of them was paid for it.</p> - -<p>Vane landed in New York about the first of -September.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIX">XIX.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">H</span>E went to the bank, and found that nothing -more had been heard from Welsh. There -was nothing doing; even his partner was out of -town. The city was empty. Vane’s first act -was to send to Doctor Kérouec a sum sufficient -to endow liberally and for all time all the -<i>sociétés de consommation</i> that there were in -Rennes. It did not cost much; and the money -was thriftily invested by the doctor, with a -most gratifying increase in the annual statistics -of soup. This he quarterly reported to his -young friend with as much satisfaction as if -the statistics were of souls saved for heaven; -but there was a note of sadness now in the -old doctor’s letters which had not been noticeable -before.</p> - -<p>The city was a mass of undistinguished humanity. -Vane rather liked this; and found -much satisfaction in going to Coney Island -and similar places where the people asserted -themselves with frankness and sincerity. One’s -fellow-man is always interesting, when not -factitious.</p> - -<p>But after a very few weeks of New York, he -wearied of it. He could not bring himself to -take so much interest in his business, now that it -was so very successful. The labor did not seem -to him so healthy, so satisfying as of old; it -could hardly be termed his daily bread, even by -a stretch of metaphor. Moreover, one’s daily -bread is got for one by wholesale in America; -machine-raised, by the thousand bushels, in -Minnesota, and brought ready to hand for -the million, like the other raw materials of -life.</p> - -<p>Vane was tired of the raw material of life—he -felt a want for something that was not -ground out by the wholesale. But the only -finished product he had yet seen was Miss -Winifred Thomas. She was a product of the -city—perhaps he ought to go further afield. -Wemyss had once said that people only got -the means of living in New York. They went -elsewhere to live.</p> - -<p>And the young man was anxious, above all -things, to live, to find in life what was earnest -and genuine: not the mere means, like -money, nor the makeshifts, like fashion. Vane -wanted happiness, not pleasure; like most -young men, he felt injured if he did not get it.</p> - -<p>It may have been this craving for humanity -that made the city unendurable to him, or it -may have been the heat, which, late in September, -was most intense. Whatever it was, -he felt restless and uneasy in the city, and cast -about him where he could best go for seclusion -and fresh air. Some acquaintance suggested -Cinerea Lake. It was at that time crowded -with people, which would make seclusion easy; -and it was a “popular summer resort,” which, -he thought, would be a novelty to him, coming -from Carcassonne and the monasteries of Monserrat. -Moreover, Cinerea was one of the -places in America which people visited solely -in search of happiness.</p> - -<p>Cinerea Lake was formerly known as Butternut -Pond; it belonged to a Mr. Sabin; -and the village was Sabin’s simply. But -the pond is really a lake, and it lies near a -spur of the Appalachian Mountains. The -place had originally been marked by a farmhouse -only, to which some popular preacher -had betaken himself for the summer months. -In an evil moment he had come back, one -autumn, and written a book about the delights -of the hills; the delights that he found in the -hills. In the next year seven-eighths of the -ladies in his parish, and their friends, had -settled upon the country, in search, they too, of -the delights of the hills; they occupied the farmhouses -within a radius of several miles, and -crocheted. The year after that had witnessed, -at only a few weeks’ interval, the foundation -and the completion of the Butternut Grand -Hotel. And now the place was beginning to -be known to that world which calls itself <i>society</i>, -and which the rest of society calls fashionable. -Little of all this was known to Vane, however. -He understood that it was cool and crowded, -and thither he accordingly went.</p> - -<p>Vane had his days of self-gratulation, like -another; and it was in one of them that he -left town for his vacation. He felt that soon -a fortune, and a large one, would be assured him. -He was an independent and successful citizen -of America, with all his country before him, and -the chances in his favor. He had lately seen -something of a friend or two also in town for -the summer; and had had an occasional little -dinner with John or some other man, in the -club, or by the sea; Vane was sociable enough, -though not gregarious, and he felt rich in acquaintances -with half a dozen or so. They -were most of them still in the city; and Vane -felt a sense of freedom, of adventure, as he left -it, which became stronger every moment as -the train flew northward. But the journey was -one of many hours, and it was late in the twilight -of the next afternoon before he alighted at -Cinerea Lake—called Cinerea by the ladies who -had looked in the lexicon to christen it anew.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XX">XX.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Butternut Grand Hotel was large and -white; with a hundred windows, all of the -same size, equidistant, and in four parallel -rows. Had any one of them been unfinished, -like the window in Aladdin’s tower, it need not -have so remained; with a few hours’ work -any joiner could have evened it up with -the rest. A huge verandah surrounded the -structure, roofed above the second story; -and up and down the painted floor of this -verandah a score of pairs of young ladies -promenaded. Young ladies they were called -in the society columns of the summer Sunday -papers; speaking colloquially, one might have -called them girls. Vane’s black suit was dusty, -and in his travel-stained condition it was embarrassing -to be the object of young feminine -eyes; but as most of them stopped their walk -to observe his entrance, there was nothing for -it but to cast his own eyes down, and walk -modestly through the line. It was a worse -gantlet than the Calais pier. Vane went to -the office to ask for his room; but it was some -minutes before the clerk, who was talking with -another gentleman, could give him his attention. -When he did so he scanned Vane rudely -before replying, and at last, as he opened his -lips to answer, two of the young ladies from -the piazza rushed in to ask for their mail, -and, pushing Vane slightly aside, engaged the -clerk’s attention. “Now, Mr. Hitchcock, you -don’t mean to tell me you have no letters -for <i>me</i>?” said one. The other looked at -Vane while she spoke, as, indeed, did the -speaker.</p> - -<p>When the clerk began sorting the heap of -letters which had just come in the coach, Vane -acquired the flattering conviction that the mail -was but a pretext, and himself the cause.</p> - -<p>“There are none, indeed, Miss Morse,” said -the clerk; and the girls fluttered gaily out. -“I’ll write you one myself, if you’ll wait,” -added the clerk jocosely. But the only reply -to this was a Parthian glance from Miss -Morse, which embraced Vane in its orbit. -The clerk looked after them with a smile, and -then, after meditating a moment, turned to -Vane.</p> - -<p>“Now, what can I do for you, sir?”</p> - -<p>“I believe I engaged a room.”</p> - -<p>“What name?”</p> - -<p>“Vane.”</p> - -<p>“Three twelve,” said the clerk, and turned -back to his first interlocutor, who had been -standing silent in the meantime, chewing a -toothpick and regarding the opposite wall.</p> - -<p>Vane’s chamber was a long and narrow -room shaped like a pigeon-hole in a desk. A -ventilating window was above the door, and a -single window opposite, uncurtained, looking -out upon a long, monotonous slope of mountain, -which was clothed shabbily in a wood of -short firs. The sides and roof of the room -were of coarse plaster; a red carpet was upon -the floor. Some delay was caused by Vane’s -ringing for a bath, and still further delay by -the waitress in obtaining the information that -he could not have one unless he gave notice -the day before. While Vane was waiting for -all this he heard the door of the next room -open, and the distinctness of the feminine -voices bore testimony to the thinness of the -walls. There were seemingly two young ladies -there, but their conversation was interrupted -by a gong, which, as one of the voices informed -him, was the gong for supper. A consequent -scuffle took place, and this was only ended by -the final bang of the door that announced the -departure of his neighbors.</p> - -<p>Vane followed their example, and entered a -long dining-hall in which two rows of tables, -eighteen in each row, were disposed transversely; -there were eighteen seats at every -table, many of which were already occupied. -After waiting a minute at the door he was -shown to a seat next a Jewish family and -several young men—evidently a sort of omnibus -table, to which the negro waiters, with -a nice social discrimination, ushered solitary -males. Possibly for this reason, they -were not well served. The table was covered -with little oval dishes of coarse stoneware -containing dip-toast, fried potatoes, and slices -of cold meat. Steaks and omelets were announced -in a printed bill of fare, and tea -and coffee. Vane was unable to interest -himself in his companions, and watched the -people coming in. Most of the elderly -ladies and some of the young girls wore -large solitaire diamonds, and bore down, -as if under full sail, through the broad aisle, -with elaborate assumption of indifference -and social dignity. It was evident that, to -many of them, the people who were seated at -these tables represented the World. The men -looked more respectable, but even more out -of place; and the girls, of whom many were -pretty, came tripping in by twos, with infinite -variety of gait and action. Vane noticed that -Miss Morse and her friend had changed -their dresses. They did not look at him. Miss -Morse’s friend had a novel in her hand which -she read during the meal.</p> - -<p>After supper Vane walked up and down the -verandah. Most of the girls did the same, -still in couples. Despite the cool mountain -air, many of them wore low-throated muslin -dresses. Vane’s quasi-acquaintance, Miss -Morse, was not among them; but about nine in -the evening a figure came out of a side-door in -front of him, in a sort of summer evening ball -dress, and stood a moment by the piazza railing, -pensively looking at the stars. As Vane -passed by he saw that it was Miss Morse, and -he could not help wondering whether she expected -him to speak to her. As he passed the -windows of the large dining-hall brilliantly -lighted with gas, he saw that they were dancing -inside. A few instruments were in one -corner, and perhaps half a dozen couples -waltzing on the floor. Some young men were -there in evening dress, but not enough to go -round, and many of the girls were dancing -with each other. Vane had to admit that most -of them danced very gracefully and well. After -a moment, Miss Morse came in. She had -apparently some pretensions, for she sank into -an arm-chair in one corner of the room, and -refused to dance. There was a sort of master -of ceremonies in the person of a sallow and -thin but dapper young gentleman who had all -the affable address of a popular lady’s salesman, -and Vane saw him present several young -men to Miss Morse. All this became at last -somewhat tiresome, and, feeling lonely, Vane -went to bed.</p> - -<p>He had almost got to sleep when he was -aroused by the voices of his feminine neighbors. -“Well, I think he’s perfectly horrid,” -said one. “No,” said another, “he ain’t much -of an addition. I told father I must have two -new ball dresses, because I was coming here -for the society. I had to tease him for them -for a month, and now, I declare, I might just -as well have stayed in the city all summer. -Come and undo this, will you, please?”</p> - -<p>“Sh!” said the other voice, “how do you -know there isn’t some one next door?” A silence -followed, interrupted by bursts of stifled -laughter.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t care,” said the first voice. -“There wasn’t any one there yesterday, anyhow. -Did you see how he was dressed? -Nothing but a common, rough suit.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t you like that? Why, I call that -real distinguished.”</p> - -<p>“Well, anyhow, I don’t see why he couldn’t -get introduced. I call it simply rude, Englishman -or no Englishman.” At this point the -unfortunate stranger seemed finally disposed -of, and Vane went to sleep.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XXI">XXI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HERE is one long road at Cinerea Lake, -always dusty, with a sidewalk of planks. -The hotel, with the appendant cottages, is on -the one side, and a few old farmhouses, now -boarding-houses, with a dozen little wooden -shops, are on the other. Most of the shops -sell novels, sweetmeats, embroidery work, and -newspapers. There were not many men at -Cinerea. It is not customary in America for -men to join their wives and children on pleasure -excursions. What few men there were -seemed oppressed by the novelty of the position, -and sat in chairs upon the piazza, with -their feet upon the railing. They seldom ventured -farther during the day. There was a -stock telegraph instrument in the hall of the -hotel, and an enterprising New York broker -had an office in an ante-room. Vane noticed -that every one of these gentlemen left their -foot-rests on the verandah shortly after breakfast, -and, following them to the nearest store, -he learned that this activity was caused by a -desire to purchase the evening papers of the -day before, which arrived, as a written placard -informed him, at 9.45 <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span> Vane himself asked -for a paper, but got no answer from the young -woman behind the counter, while a friend who -was sitting with her, working, and eating pieces -of chocolate from a paper bag upon her lap, -stopped her embroidery a moment to stare -at him rudely. Suddenly it dawned upon -Vane that he had seen the faces of these two -ladies at his hotel. They were sitting on a -little piazza in front of the shop, behind a -small counter, but the shop itself seemed to be -a sort of club-room for the ladies of the place, -and these were evidently guests. Vane apologized -for his error with some inward amusement, -but his speech was rewarded with a still -blanker stare from the young woman with the -chocolate.</p> - -<p>So far, this “popular summer resort” promised -more errors than entertainment. Vane -had certainly never felt so lonely before as -among this gay company. Work gives its own -companionship, but idleness is gregarious. -The place was full of girls of all styles of behavior -and prettiness. Some were playing -tennis, others making up companies for drives, -others starting off for long walks. Vane had -pictured the type of American girlhood as -something fragile and delicate, but these had -healthy faces and lithe young figures robed in -flannel and untrammelled by the dressmakers’ -art. They were bright, quick with their -eyes, but far from ethereal. Vane himself -went to walk, and, after following the road for -a mile or so, entered a woody path, which, as a -finger-post assured him, led to Diana’s baths.</p> - -<p>He felt much in the mood for a meeting -with a heathen goddess, and entered the forest -accordingly. But he found nothing nearer -Diana than Miss Morse and her friend, who -were sitting reading with two young men. -The path seemed to vanish where they sat, and -Vane made hold to stop and ask one of the -young men the way. They were slow of -speech, and Miss Morse herself replied. She -assured him that he was at his destination, -and Vane found himself, in a moment, in conversation -with her.</p> - -<p>Diana’s Baths were formed by a small brook -trickling over some mossy rocks and making a -few pools in which Diana might possibly have -wet her feet. Vane made this suggestion, -which was received with much laughter, at the -end of which he found himself on such a footing -of intimacy that he was being introduced -to Miss Morse’s companions: “Miss Westerhouse, -may I introduce Mr.—— Mr.——” -“Vane,” suggested he. “Mr. Vane, of New -York, Miss Morse. Miss Westerhouse, Mr. -Vane. Mr. Vane, Mr. Thomson and Mr. Dibble.” -The young men nodded rather awkwardly. -Miss Westerhouse made a place on the -rock beside her, and Vane sat down wondering -how the situation would be explained, and who -had told her that he came from New York.</p> - -<p>“I met you yesterday on your arrival, did I -not?” Miss Morse went on.</p> - -<p>Vane admitted that she had, and remembered -the scene with the hotel clerk.</p> - -<p>“Coming from New York, I fear you will -find Cinerea Lake rather dull. We are after -the season, you know.”</p> - -<p>He hastened to assure her that he had -found the place most attractive.</p> - -<p>“It is getting to be rather too well known now, -but it is pretty, though not so nice as it was. -You meet all sorts of people here already.”</p> - -<p>Vane felt duly instructed as to the social -position of his companions, and assented, with -much honesty, to her last statement.</p> - -<p>“It is not very gay here, now. We have a -hop twice a week.”</p> - -<p>“That will be delightful,” said Vane with -enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“Do you reside in New York?” Miss Westerhouse -broke in.</p> - -<p>“As much as I do anywhere,” said Vane. -“I have to travel a great deal.” Vane noticed -a sudden lack of interest in him after this -remark, and fancied that they set him down -for a commercial traveler. “I have only lived -in New York of late years, and then only when -I am not——on the road,” he added, as the -humorous view of the situation struck him. A -silence followed this remark, and a certain -coldness; but Vane, who had a particularly -comfortable place, leaning back on a mossy -rock, made no motion to go. Finally Miss -Westerhouse made an effort.</p> - -<p>“Then you are not much acquainted in New -York.”</p> - -<p>“I have a good many business acquaintances.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I mean your lady friends.”</p> - -<p>“I have none,” said Vane.</p> - -<p>“Some very pleasant New Yorkers have -been here,” said Miss Morse, “but they only -stayed a few days. Mrs. Haviland and Miss -Thomas——” Vane could not repress a -slight movement. “Do you know them?” -said the young lady with some interest.</p> - -<p>“Miss Winifred Thomas?”</p> - -<p>“This was Miss Baby——”</p> - -<p>“It is the same person,” said Vane, with -decision.</p> - -<p>“Is she not just too lovely?” broke in again -Miss Westerhouse, with enthusiasm. Vane -could not but concur in this sentiment. Miss -Morse’s interest in him seemed revived.</p> - -<p>“I suppose we must go back to dinner -now,” said she. “By the way, we are going -to have a straw-ride this afternoon. Would -you not like to come, Mr. Vane? The gentlemen -are getting it up. Mr. Dibble, here, is -chief manager——”</p> - -<p>Vane said he should be delighted, and they -rose to go. Picking up two books and a bonbonnière -which lay upon the grass, he followed -Miss Morse. He looked at the books -as he went, and uttered a slight ejaculation. -One, to be sure, was <i>Lucile</i>, but the other was -a volume of Prosper Mérimée’s <i>Lettres à une -Inconnue</i>.</p> - -<p>On the way back Vane was presented to -several other young ladies, and when he finally -entered the hotel piazza, it was in company -with a Miss Parsons, of Brooklyn, who in turn -presented him to a Miss Storrs, of Cleveland, -and left them, as she unnecessarily explained, -to dress for dinner.</p> - -<p>Vane was rather ashamed to own to himself -that he was displeased at the acquaintance -that seemed to have existed between Miss -Thomas and his late companions. Little as -he cared for Miss Thomas, there was certainly -a world-wide difference between her and Miss -Morse, Mr. Thomson and Mr. Dibble; and yet -he could not bring himself to admit that he -was snobbish or prejudiced. It was simply -that the wealth and education of these young -ladies had outstripped their breeding, while -the young men were still seeking for the first. -He pictured to himself Miss Thomas sitting in -flannels at Diana’s Baths, and going on straw-rides -with Mr. Dibble, and the idea was distasteful -to him.</p> - -<p>It was surely an odd chance that he should -travel upon her wake in this way. Throughout -the afternoon he occasionally caught himself -wondering how she would appear in these -surroundings. This thing was a mixture of -Arcady and an American female college, with -a touch of Vauxhall thrown in. And it was -only six weeks since he had wandered in the -moonlight of the Alhambra; and the harvest -was hardly all gathered that had been ripening -about the walls of Carcassonne. Vane -wished that he could meet these people at -home—that he could see their life really as it -was. Was this, then, all? It could not be. -There must be something more real behind it.</p> - -<p>Vane could fancy, in the days when he had -been in love, himself and her living in that out-of-the-way -corner in France, in that forgotten -nook sheltered on the backward shores of -Spain, eddied in the flood of modern life and -civilization, where he had wandered in the -pine woods upon Monserrat. But this place, -this painted wooden hotel, this company, -seemed more foreign to him than anything in -the Old World. What was it? What was it -that gave the strange character to it all? -Was he, then, such a foreigner that he could -not understand it? Was even his love exotic, -that it seemed impossible here?</p> - -<p>The young man gave himself much mental -trouble in getting at the secret of this American -life. And, in the last analysis, it seemed -unreal—unreal because it was temporary; because -the old was going and the new had not -yet come; because it was like the wooden -houses and the temporary bridges, and the -provisional social conventions, and the thin -fashionable veneer of neo-conservatism—it -was suffered to remain until the people found -time and resolution to make a change.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XXII">XXII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">V</span>ANE, however, did not carry his analysis -quite so far as this. He found that it was -unreal; there he stopped; the why was too -heavy a burden for him. He was ready and -anxious enough to make it real; but still, all -through his life, the substance of life itself had -kept eluding him, and left the shadow in his -hand.</p> - -<p>Many of the girls (at Cinerea every woman -under thirty is a girl)—many of the girls were -reading novels, American summer stories, -written by girls about other girls, and revelling -in the summer life of girls. Vane borrowed -some of these and read them. They -were so prettily written, so charming, so awfully -true, he was told; and he liked not to confess -that they gave him but a little passing amusement, -which was followed by much mental depression. -It was all true and real, then? Was -Vane himself something of a prig? John -Haviland did not think so. But these stories -seemed to him more immoral, or at all events, -more corrupting, than many a French romance -ending in adultery. There was in them an ignorance -of all that is highest in life, a calm, -self-satisfied acceptance of a petty standard. -The strength of crime implies the strength of -virtue, but the negation of both is hopelessness. -In defence of Vane, it might be said that he -was really not in the mood for pleasure at this -time.</p> - -<p>The straw-ride was unanimously declared to -be a great success. Miss Morse brought her -volume of Mérimée along and read it to her -young man in the woods. Her young man for -the afternoon, that is; she had no special -young man. The chaperone was the beautiful -Mrs. Miles Breeze, of Baltimore; she arrived -suddenly, in the nick of time to go; and Vane -could see that Miss Morse was much elated at -being under the wing of so real a social personage. -Ned Eddy was with her. When the -company paired off and scattered in the woods, -Vane fell to the lot of a Miss Gibbs, of Philadelphia, -a still newer acquaintance to whom -Miss Storrs had introduced him. Miss Gibbs -had a volume of Rossetti’s poems with her, -and Vane read to her the “Last Confession” -under the pine trees. For many a foreigner, -it would have been his first. But the hearts of -American young men are (very properly) bound -in triple brass. Miss Gibbs also knew Miss -Thomas. She seemed relieved when she gathered -from Vane that Miss Storrs was an acquaintance -of a few hours, and Misses Morse -and Westerhouse of the morning only. Evidently, -thought Vane, there were distinctions -if not differences. Miss Gibbs combined much -good-breeding with her fascinations; and a -dangerous <i>savoir faire</i>.</p> - -<p>The next day he went to walk with a dark-haired -girl in the morning, and to drive with a -yellow-haired widow in the afternoon. In the -evening he found himself drifting on the lake -in a boat with Miss Gibbs. Any one of these -beauties would have been termed, by a Frenchman, -adorable; and probably he would have -ventured to adore. Other boats with similar -couples were scattered over the lake, no one too -near another. As far as Vane could judge, it -seemed to be considered the proper thing for -every young man to simulate the deepest love -for his companion of the hour. It was a sort -of private theatrical, with the out-door night -for a stage; a midsummer night’s dream, of -which the theme was <i>let’s pretend we’re lovers</i>. -He was here alone with Miss Gibbs under circumstances -which in France would have compelled -him to marry her; and it was doubtful -whether she would even remember him as an -acquaintance, in the city, a few weeks later.</p> - -<p>He was glad to admit that there was something -very creditable in the fact that the thing -was possible. Still this trifling, this mild but -continuous drugging of the affections, must -have its demoralizing effect. It was part result -and part cause of that same unreality. The only -real thing about the hotel was the stock-ticker; -and even there, the stock that it registered was -water. It was all very amusing. Yet the fancy -continually recurred of Miss Thomas, in this -situation, though he, of all men, would have -had no right to be displeased; for had she -not definitely told him he had none? Still, -it was hard to divest himself of a certain sense -of property in her; he had mentally appropriated -her for so long.</p> - -<p>He was plashing carelessly with his oars, -and watching the sheen of moonlight on the -outline of his companion’s fair face, suffering -himself for a moment to wonder how the same -light would have fallen in Winifred’s blue -eyes, when Miss Gibbs again spoke of her.</p> - -<p>“I had a letter from your friend Miss -Thomas, to-day,” said she. The deuce she -had! thought Vane; so she corresponds with -Miss Gibbs, does she? Vane was disgusted -with himself for thinking so much about the -girl, and here he was caught thinking of her -again.</p> - -<p>He pulled a few nervous strokes. How -could he see the letter without exciting Miss -Gibbs’ curiosity? He managed it, finally, -and read the letter. He was secretly relieved -to find that the note was quite formal and was -simply to tell Miss Gibbs that she need not -forward a piece of embroidery which had been -left behind. More surprising was the news -that Miss Thomas was coming back. Vane -made himself doubly attentive to Miss Gibbs; -and as each man walked back with his lady, -and said to her a long good night on the hotel -piazza, implying all the sorrow of a Romeo -in parting from a Juliet, Vane was secretly -wondering what the deuce he was to do. -“What the deuce!” was again the phrase he -mentally used. He did not wish to see the girl -again—that was certain enough; but it was -decidedly undignified to run away. There was -really a sort of fatality in their meeting.</p> - -<p>But the best way to treat a fatality is to make -nothing of it. Thus treated, it is seldom fatal. -Then he was rather curious to see how Miss -Thomas would behave among these Dibbles -and these Westerhouses. After all, she too was -an American; a little more sophisticated, a -little better endowed by nature; but she, too, -made a toy of love, and actors in private theatricals -of her more “exciting” friends. “Exciting” -was a word that Vane had heard Miss -Westerhouse apply to Mr. Dibble. Vane had -caught a little of the Parisian’s contempt for -flirting with young girls. In a flirtation with -married women, he thought, there were at least -possibilities; and the flirtations were not so -utterly silly. But marriage was far too serious -an affair to be made fun of. At this period -Vane affected to himself an extreme cynicism. -Intercourse with Cinerea girls had corrupted -him. They had given him their own levity. -At another time, he would have deplored the -vulgarization of a lofty sentiment; but since -the past June he had been in a flippant mood -himself. The American cue was to make game -of everything in fun, and to make a hazard of -life in earnest. He felt that he was becoming -Americanized.</p> - -<p>Feminine companionship was certainly corrupting -to earnestness, if not to morals. -By the end of this week he felt cloyed -with too much trifle. He sighed for a man -and a cigar, for a seat in a club, for a glass of -brandy, for anything else masculine, for a little -of man’s plain language and strong thinking. -Yet these girls were no fools: they read Prosper -Mérimée’s Letters, for example. They -were emancipated enough. But they also read -Lucile. He understood why women were not -let into ancient religions, Freemasonry and the -Egyptian mysteries. They belittled the imagination. -<i>Per contra</i>, they were essential to the -Eleusinian. Their only truly great rôle was -the Mœnad. And yet, he thought, these sentiments -of his would have shocked these girls.</p> - -<p>Vane’s thoughts came and went nervously. -He was driving in a buggy alone, or, at least, -only Miss Morse was with him. He was -ashamed of himself; he was ashamed of his -thinking; he was ashamed, thinking as he did, -of his inconsistency in driving with Miss -Morse in a buggy. <i>Postiche, postiche</i>, it was all -<i>postiche</i>, or was it frankness? Was it the -troubled dream, the low beginning of the new -conditions? Was his disapproval a bit of -feudal prejudice? Vane was troubled, excited, -disgusted, confused. Miss Morse noticed all -this, but thought he was in love with her.</p> - -<p>The only green spots in the man’s memory -were Rennes, and Monserrat, and Carcassonne; -yes, and the littered desk in the down-town -office in New York—the scene of his only -labors and his one success. And that success -was no longer necessary; it no longer profited -any one but himself. Vane had never formulated -his position with such precision before. -The last person of his own family was dead; he -had claims upon no one, no one had any -claim upon him; he had no further ambitions -upon Mammon. Given this problem, what solution -could the world offer—the New York -world, that is? Somebody says life is made -up of labor, art, love, and worship. New York -had given him labor, which he had performed. -And of the others? Had it given him love, -even? Was he a barbarian, better fitted for a -struggle with crude nature than New York, -not up to the refinements of modern civilization? -Should he leave these places? Now, that -day Miss Thomas was to come, and he must -decide. He thirsted for happiness; how was -he best to find it? These thoughts, perhaps, -seemed selfish, cold-blooded, practical, but -there was a sadness in them for Vane.</p> - -<p>So thinking, as he drove his buggy along -the road, they passed Miss Thomas, walking -gracefully, and the rich, slow color burned -through her face and fell away at her temples -as she bowed. Vane drove on the faster, flicking -his horse with the whip, and considered -what he would do now that she had returned.</p> - -<p>He would treat her like Miss Westerhouse -and Miss Gibbs of Philadelphia. He would not -have his own movements disturbed by her -coming and going. He would stay his intended -fortnight out and then go.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XXIII">XXIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HERE was a mountain party that afternoon, -organized by Mr. Dibble. Vane -supposed that Miss Thomas would be of the -number, and himself stayed away, not caring -to meet her. But when he came back, after a -long walk, she was sitting on the piazza with -Mrs. Haviland. Vane passed by, raising his -hat. She looked at him almost wistfully, not -blushing this time, but very pale. When he -came down from his room, before tea, he went -up and spoke to her.</p> - -<p>“You have not gone to the picnic, Miss -Thomas!”</p> - -<p>She looked up for a moment at him earnestly; -then, dropping her eyes, spoke gravely -and rather coldly.</p> - -<p>“I do not go on mountain parties, Mr. -Vane.”</p> - -<p>“At Cinerea Lake?”</p> - -<p>“At Cinerea Lake or elsewhere.”</p> - -<p>“Really, I had flattered myself that I had -been enjoying your own diversions.”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas made no answer whatever to -this. Then, after some minutes—“Why did -you not answer my letter?”</p> - -<p>“I did not know it required an answer.”</p> - -<p>“I value your friendship very highly. It -made me very unhappy.”</p> - -<p>“Apparently you were successful in concealing -your unhappiness from your friend -Miss Gibbs. I did not know it was my friendship -you cared for.”</p> - -<p>“I am in the habit of concealing most -things from Miss Gibbs. Have I ever given -you reason to suppose I cared for anything <i>else</i> -than your friendship?”</p> - -<p>“You have lost little of your old skill,” said -Vane, grimly. “I cannot conceive, clever as -you still are, that you should have been, for a -year, so slow of comprehension. You would -rather I should think you a flirt than maladroit.”</p> - -<p>“You think me so?” Miss Thomas spoke -as if she were going to cry. Vane looked at -her.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said he, simply, and -walked away. Miss Thomas went on with her -sewing, bending her head over the work. -Truly, thought Vane, it was not a very manly -thing in him taunting her that he had failed to -make her love him. But had he honestly -tried? he questioned himself, as he walked up -and down the piazza that evening. Had he -not rather put the thing on a basis of flirtation -from the beginning?</p> - -<p>Bah! he was going back to his old innocence. -He had definitely given her to understand that -he had loved her, and she had forced him to -the utmost boundary of the explicit, and in his -foolish magnanimity had made a fool of him. -He had failed to make her love him; no one -could make her love until she chose, for -worldly reasons of her own, to try. He -stopped his walk when next he passed by the -place where she was sitting. “You do not -seem to have your old attention,” he said, brutally. -He had a way of saying petty things -when with her, and was conscious of it.</p> - -<p>“Why do you think I care for attention?” -said she, simply.</p> - -<p>“You cared for mine——”</p> - -<p>“You admit it?”</p> - -<p>——“Like that of any masculine unit.”</p> - -<p>“I used to respect you, Mr. Vane. Pray do -not console me for the loss of your friendship -by showing me how worthless it is.”</p> - -<p>“You seem to have made that friendship of -mine for you a matter of common knowledge -among the people in this place.”</p> - -<p>“I have never spoken of you to any one -since you left, last June.”</p> - -<p>There was a ring of truth in her words, but -Vane thought of Miss Gibbs and her trivial -talk. He sat down in the chair in front of -her.</p> - -<p>There was nothing said between them for a -long time.</p> - -<p>“You told me then that you had forgiven -me. I thought it was so noble in you! for I -had acted very wrongly.” Miss Thomas was -rocking nervously in her chair; she had a -handkerchief in her hand; occasionally in the -dark, she touched it to her eyes. Vane took -hold of the end of the handkerchief, as it -drooped from her hand. “I told you then that -I would forgive you—and it was true,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Then give me your friendship back. I am -so lonely—without it,” she added in low tones. -Vane still held the handkerchief, and moved -it slowly with the rocking, alternately drawing -it forward and letting it back; a subtle feminine -influence seemed to be in the soft cambric, -and thrilled warm in his hand.</p> - -<p>Vane felt very kindly toward her as he went -to sleep that night. After all, she was true, or -meant to be, at least. It was not her fault, -but his, that she had not cared to be his wife. -And it seemed to him that he cared more for -his opinion of her than for hers of him. He -valued his faith in her more than his hope of -winning her.</p> - -<p>Again, he doubted if he was in love with -her; he doubted if he ever had been; but he -still felt for her a sort of tender pity. Poor, -lonely, little maiden; with all her beauty she -was but a child as yet; and he had expected -from her the knowledge and discretion of a -woman of the world. Yes, surely, she was -different from the other girls in this place. He -was glad that his momentary love had calmed -and sweetened into friendship.</p> - -<p>Vane himself asked her to walk with him -the next evening, and they went at sunset -through the grave mountain gorges. They -were both very quiet; the man had almost -nothing to say. They knew one another too -well for ordinary conversation.</p> - -<p>“Why are you so silent?” said she. “You -never used to be so.”</p> - -<p>“Am I silent? I do not know why. I suppose -I make up for having nothing to say -when I am with you by thinking of you so -much when I am away. There is so much to -be thought, and so little to be said.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad that you still think of me.”</p> - -<p>Vane looked at her dense black hair, and -the soft shine of moisture in her upturned -eyes. “The thoughts that I cannot say are so -much stronger than the things I can, that they -overpower the others, and I can say nothing,” -he said.</p> - -<p>“Do you know, I often have imaginary conversations -with you?”</p> - -<p>“Tell me some of them.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot. I should say too much if I said -anything.”</p> - -<p>“Remember our compact, to be only -friends,” said Vane, gravely. “Do not speak -as if you were more than a friend, or I shall -think you less.”</p> - -<p>“I do remember our compact. That is why -I do not say them.”</p> - -<p>The words sounded strangely, but Vane -knew she was sincere when she uttered them. -When she pressed his hand that night at parting, -she still managed to let Vane know that -he was to put no false interpretation on her -friendliness. She was a woman, and she did -not know herself, he thought; but she was not -a girl, and she knew him.</p> - -<p>A day or two after this they were drifting -under the moonlight on the lake. Her beauty -had never seemed so marvellous to Vane as -on that evening; the soft darkness of her hair, -and shadowed light of her blue eyes, like the -light of the night sky with the moon at the -zenith. Her head was drooping slightly, and -one round white arm, bared to the elbow, was -trailing with a tender ripple in the water.</p> - -<p>“Are you never going to marry, friend of -mine?” said Vane, dropping his oars to look -at her.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said she, “I shall marry when one -man asks me.”</p> - -<p>“Who is he?”</p> - -<p>“I have never met him,” she muttered, -dreamily. “I have never met but one man -like him.”</p> - -<p>Vane took his oar again. “She meant me to -think she meant me,” he thought, and rowed -vigorously. She seemed unconscious of the -change of motion, and her hand, still trailing in -the water, wet her white sleeve. Vane stopped -rowing and seated himself beside her. “You -are wetting your arm,” said he, lifting her -hand from the water. She shall love me, he -thought to himself, as he looked at her. A -moment later he had taken her hand in his, -and pushing the sleeve back from the arm -kissed it passionately. The woman made no -sign for a moment or two; then, as the man -still held her hand, she came to herself with a -little shudder. “O don’t, Mr. Vane, pray don’t—oh, -I ought not to have let you do it—oh, pray -go back——.” Vane left her hand and looked -at her steadfastly. “Oh, I ought not to have -spoken so,” she went on, with a little moan, -“but I pitied you so——. O Mr. Vane, I was so -sorry for you, that I forgot; and you were looking -at me, and you seemed to care so much——”</p> - -<p>“You told me of imaginary conversations -you sometimes had with me,” said Vane. -“Cannot you tell me what they were?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I ought not to tell you,” said she, -breathlessly. “Can we not go home? Will -you not row me back?”</p> - -<p>Vane slowly resumed his seat. “We each -now owe the other forgiveness,” said he. “If -you would try to love me, I think I would -wait.” The girl in front of him shuddered -again, and bent her head away, till he saw -where her hair was pencilled into the ivory -neck; then she spoke, slowly and simply. “I -have sometimes fancied that I could learn to -care for you, Mr. Vane—not now, not now—after -a great many years, perhaps.”</p> - -<p>Vane was silent for some minutes. Then, -as they neared the shore, he spoke in a clear -undertone. “Will you promise to tell me, if -you ever care for any one else—if I wait, Miss -Thomas?”</p> - -<p>She bowed her head still lower, and Vane -took her hand again and held it for a moment. -He left in it the old lace handkerchief, still -burned at the edges. “When you send it back -to me, I shall know what it means,” he said, -and kissed it. “But while you still keep it, I -shall hope.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am wrong in saying this,” she sighed. -“I may never care for you. And yet in certain -ways I care for you so much. It seems sometimes -to me that I have no heart. I don’t -think I am worthy of you.” She took the -handkerchief and put it in her pocket.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XXIV">XXIV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HEY walked back together. Vane felt a -year removed from the happenings of the -last week, from Miss Morse, from all the others. -It seemed as if the painted hotel were to vanish, -like a stage-setting, and he were back in -Carcassonne or Monserrat, back with her. All -the genuine life that he had missed so long -was his: the earnestness, the simplicity of -olden times. Now no longer he asked himself -what there was in America for him to do.</p> - -<p>In all this there was nothing sentimental; it -was natural, real, radical. That he ever could -have doubted that he was in love!</p> - -<p>What he felt for Winifred was passion, not -sentiment, and he gloried in it; it was because -she was a woman, after all, and he a man, and -he knew now that he should win her.</p> - -<p>There was a certain splendid excitement -about Vane’s life that autumn. It was all so -real to him now. The solution had come of -itself. He was not yet her lover, formally accepted, -but he felt that he was her lover in -fact and truth. He was continually with her; -following her to Newport when she went there -for a month, late in October. She not only -suffered him to be with her; she suffered him -(as a woman may, impalpably) to love her; -even, now and then, to show his love for her, -as when he took her hand, or walked with her -in autumn evenings by the sea. Now and then -she would repulse him, telling him that he -must not be confident of her; that it was only -to be after many years; but her repulses grew -fainter and less frequent. It did not, even -then, seem to Vane as if he were teaching her -to love; she was too sympathetic; she felt too -quickly and too closely every impulse of his -own; his passion was too readily reflected in -the flush or paleness of her face. Rather was -she herself the mistress, Vane the scholar. -Nothing he said or sighed seemed to take her -by surprise, to be unappreciated by her. He -augured well from this.</p> - -<p>When a woman admits that she may come to -like a man in time, she means that she already -loves him, but is not quite ready for marriage. -It was a more dangerous footing, their intimacy -on these terms, than if their troth had been -fairly plighted. The man sought persistently -to win new concessions, to force further confessions; -the woman, having made the one admission, -could but half resist. It brought -about a new declaration of his passion every -day; pale, she listened to the torrent of his -words, now faintly chiding, now looking vacantly -out to sea. The worn voices of the -ocean gave might and earnestness to his pleading, -and filled, with its own grave majesty, his -broken pauses. Her hand would grow cold as -it lay between his own, and she sat silent; -until, with a start of self-reproach, she would -regain her knowledge of the present and make -him lead her back among the streets and -houses.</p> - -<p>Vane went occasionally, for a few days, to -the city, to look after the affairs of his bank. -The closing of his contract with Welsh, who -finally paid to the firm nearly a million, and the -reinvestment of this money, took much time. -Vane had never been a better man of business -than when he decided on these matters, thinking, -with a thrill in his strong body, of the -meeting, next day, and the long afternoon to -be passed on the shore with the woman that -he loved. Some days Vane would not go near -her; he was still careful not to incur comment; -he could control himself. But hardly any one -was left in Newport now, and their walks far -out upon the cliffs had generally escaped the -notice of the world.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XXV">XXV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="dropcap">S</span>HE came back to the city in November, but -in the last of the month again Vane persuaded -her to go to Newport and spend a -week when he could be there all the time. -She had an old aunt there at whose house she -visited; Vane had his permanent lodgings; -and this was before the time when many -people stayed there through the winter. Vane -had urged her to let him meet her at the -southern extremity of the island, where the -long ledges of rock run out to the reef; but -sometimes she would bid him walk thither -with her, and would even seem to like to have -the notice of the town. They had given up -their reading by this time, and their small talk -had long since ceased. Early in the autumn -they had begun with the Vita Nuova; but even -Dante’s words had seemed weak to him, and -after a few days the books had been thrown -aside. She had not urged him to go on with -them. Every day, rain or storm, this late -week in autumn, they would skirt the cliffs, by -the gardens with a few geraniums or pansies -still drooping in the trim parterres, and go far -out along the southern coves and beaches, -where the full pulse of the Atlantic rolled in -from the Indies. Vane had tried every day to -win the final word; but all his passion had -not done more than force her to seek refuge in -silence. This last day she had opened her -lips once or twice to speak, after a long pause, -and then pressed them again together. Vane -always walked a yard or two from her side, -and looked at her fairly when he spoke. She -would not sit down with him that day; so -they went on, mile after mile, along a -still, gray sea. The sky was cloudy, the -waters had an oily look; and the waves -were convex and smooth until they broke, -creaming about the sharp rocks. Vane made -another trial, just before they left the ocean to -turn inland. She seemed to feel that she -ought to speak, then, but yet could only look -at him with her large blue eyes, the pupils -slightly dilated. At last, just as she was leaving -him, “Come to see me, in a month, in New -York,” she said.</p> - -<p>Vane went back that night and kept himself -very busy. He heard little from Miss Thomas -during the time except that she had not returned -from Newport. She would never write -to him since the June last past, though he had -often begged her to do so. On the afternoon -before Christmas Eve, at five o’clock, he called -at her house. The room was just as he remembered -it the year before—if anything, a -little more shabby. She was standing alone as -if she expected him. She was dressed in a gown -that he remembered, and looked younger and -more like her old self than she had seemed at -Newport. She was smiling as he entered, but -though the smile did not enter her eyes, they -were not deep. She held something in her -hand, which, as Vane approached, she extended -to him. “I want to give you back -your handkerchief,” she said. “I have felt -that I ought to for a long time. I wanted to -do so at Newport, but I could not bring myself -to do it then.”</p> - -<p>Vane stopped in his walk to look at her. -“You mean that you love some one else?”</p> - -<p>Miss Thomas bent her head a hair’s breadth.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said she, simply.</p> - -<p>“Who is it?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ten Eyck.”</p> - -<p>“Are you engaged to him?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Have you told him?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“When are you going to tell him?”</p> - -<p>“In a day or two.”</p> - -<p>Vane gave a heavy sigh. Miss Thomas sank -in a chair, looking at the fire, the handkerchief -still in her hand.</p> - -<p>“I thank you for telling me first,” said -Vane. He turned to go.</p> - -<p>“You have forgotten your handkerchief,” -said she. Vane went back to get it, avoiding -the touch of her hand. Then he turned again, -and the outer door closed behind him, Miss -Thomas still looking at the fire. It was a -rainy night and there had been snow previously. -As Vane crossed Fifth Avenue he -threw the handkerchief into a pool of mire.</p> - -<p>He went to his lodgings to shave and dress -for dinner. His hand trembled, and it seemed -to him that he was very angry. He took dinner -at his club, and smoked a cigar afterward -with a friend, and drank a bottle of Burgundy.</p> - -<p>“What has become of Ten Eyck this last -month?” asked Vane, carelessly, in the course -of the evening.</p> - -<p>“He’s been at Newport lately,” said the -other. “He’s just got back.”</p> - -<p>Vane went to bed rather early and slept -heavily. It was unusual for him to take so -much wine. But he did not dream of Miss -Thomas. In the morning he felt that he had -got over it, and he walked down-town to his -office. It was a clear winter’s day, sharp and -bright. They were closing up the banking -accounts for the year, and he worked hard all -the morning. He might now call himself very -rich. He was an infinitely better match than -Ten Eyck. She must have loved him all along—from -the very beginning, thought he. He -was very indignant with her. But in the afternoon, -even this feeling seemed to grow less -strong. She was a woman, after all. He could -not blame her. He had been angry last night, -but now he felt that he could understand her. -He almost liked her the better for it. She had -been true to herself and her first love. He -might have wished the same thing himself. -Vane almost felt a pride in his discovery of -her nature. He had called her a woman from -the beginning. It was the fashion to decry -American girls. She was different from a girl. -She was a true woman—a woman like Cleopatra -or like Helen. Had he first won her, -she would have been true to him. He argued -savagely with himself, defending her.</p> - -<p>He worked rapidly, and by noon the accounts -were done. It was Christmas Eve. Toward evening -the sky became gray, with flakes of snow in -the air. Vane walked up to Central Park, and -returned to dress for dinner. Where was he -to dine? The club was the best place to meet -people. His lodgings were dark, and he had -some difficulty in finding a match; then he -dropped one of his shirt studs on the floor and -had to grope for it. Another one broke, and -he threw open the drawer of his shaving-stand, -impatiently, to find one to replace it. Lying in -the drawer was an old revolver he had brought -back from Minnesota two years before. He -took it out, placed the muzzle at his chest, and -drew the trigger. As he fell on the floor, he -turned once over upon his side, holding up his -hands before his eyes.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>So John ended his story. Of course he told -it much less elaborately, that evening in the -club, than I have written it here. I suppose I -have told it more as if I were a novelist, trying -to write a story. John gave the facts briefly; -but he described Vane’s character pretty carefully, -even to his thoughts, as he had known -the man so intimately. Most of these descriptions -I have tried to reproduce. And he ended -the story as I have ended it, even to the very -words. It was a story six years old when he -told it to us; the man was forgotten, and the -girl was married. His suicide was at first -ascribed to financial difficulties, and the excitement -soon subsided when his banking accounts -were shown to be correct.</p> - -<p>I do not remember that there was very much -said when John got through. It was very late -at night; most of the men were sleepy and we -all had to be down-town early in the morning. -There was, indeed, a silence for some time.</p> - -<p>Finally the Major drew a long breath. -“Well,” said he, “my opinion remains the -same.”</p> - -<p>“And mine.” “And mine,” chimed in voices.</p> - -<p>“The man was a fool,” said Schuyler, simply.</p> - -<p>“It was cowardly to shoot himself,” said -Daisy Blake.</p> - -<p>“And to shoot himself for a girl!” cried -Schuyler. “Just think what a fellow may do -with fifty thousand a year!”</p> - -<p>“She was a woman,” said John.</p> - -<p>“Was she a woman? that is just the question,” -said the Major.</p> - -<p>“The question,” said another man, who had -not yet spoken, “is whether he really loved -Baby Thomas—or the English girl, after all.” -This was a new view of the case; and a -moment’s silence followed.</p> - -<p>“No man, to see Mrs. Malgam now, would -think a fellow had shot himself for her,” said -another.</p> - -<p>“How does she come to be Mrs. Malgam?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Malgam is her second husband,” said -Blake. “She has grown tremendously fat.”</p> - -<p>“Well, good-night,” said the Major, rising.</p> - -<p>“Speaking of fifty thousand a year, how -much did Vane really leave?” said Schuyler to -John.</p> - -<p>“A million and a half, I believe.”</p> - -<p>“Whew!” said Schuyler; “I had no idea of -that.”</p> - -<p>“The granger roads dropped half a point, -when his death was known,” said the Major, -putting on his coat.</p> - -<p class="center noindent">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="blockquot2"><div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph2 nobreak">STORIES by AMERICAN AUTHORS.</p> -</div> - -<p class="center noindent">Bound in Cloth, 50 cents per Volume.</p> - -<p>“The American short story has a distinct artistic quality. It has -the directness of narrative and careful detail of the best French novelettes, -with an added flexibility that is peculiar to itself. It has -humor, too. Each one of the tales is a masterpiece, and, taken -together, they afford delightful entertainment for leisure half hours. -All may be read more than once.”—<i>Boston Traveler.</i></p> - -<table> - -<tr><th colspan="2">THE FIRST VOLUME CONTAINS:</th></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Who Was She?</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Bayard Taylor</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>The Documents in the Case.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Brander Matthews</span> and <span class="smcap">H. C. Bunner</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>One of the Thirty Pieces.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">W. H. Bishop</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Balacchi Brothers.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Rebecca Harding Davis</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>An Operation in Money.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Albert Webster</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2">THE SECOND VOLUME CONTAINS:</th></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>The Transferred Ghost.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Frank R. Stockton</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>A Martyr to Science.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Mary Putnam-Jacobi, M.D</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Mrs. Knollys.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By the Author of “Guerndale.”</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>A Dinner-Party.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">John Eddy</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>The Mount of Sorrow.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Harriett Prescott Spofford</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Sister Silvia.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Mary Agnes Tincker</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2">THE THIRD VOLUME CONTAINS:</th></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>The Spider’s Eye.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Lucretia P. Hale</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>A Story of the Latin Quarter.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Frances Hodgson Burnett</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Two Purse Companions.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">George Parsons Lathrop</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Poor Ogla-Moga.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">David D. Lloyd</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>A Memorable Murder.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Celia Thaxter</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Venetian Glass.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Brander Matthews</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2">THE FOURTH VOLUME CONTAINS:</th></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Miss Grief.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Constance Fenimore Woolson</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Love in Old Cloathes.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">H. C. Bunner</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Two Buckets in a Well.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">N. P. Willis</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Friend Barton’s Concern.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Mary Hallock Foote</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>An Inspired Lobbyist.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">J. W. De Forest</span>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdl"><b>Lost in the Fog.</b></td> -<td class="tdbr">By <span class="smcap">Noah Brooks</span>.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>In Future Volumes the following writers, besides many -others, will be represented:</p> - -<p>HENRY JAMES, EDWARD BELLAMY, FITZ JAMES -O’BRIEN, F. D. MILLET, E. P. MITCHELL, Mrs. LINA -REDWOOD FAIRFAX, The Author of “The Village -Convict,” JAMES T. MCKAY, Miss VIRGINIA W. -JOHNSON, Mrs. L. W. CHAMPNEY.</p> - -<p class="center noindent"><i>For sale by all booksellers, or sent, post-paid, upon receipt of -price, by</i></p> - -<p class="center noindent">CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, Publishers,</p> - -<p class="center noindent"><span class="smcap">743 and 745 Broadway</span>, <span class="smcap">New York</span>.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph2 nobreak"><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Notes:</span></p> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">“Haviand”, on page 67, has been changed to “Haviland”, the correct name of the -character.</p> - -<p class="noindent">“Up town”, on page 75, has been changed to “up-town”, to match other occurrences -in the book.</p> - -<p class="noindent">“Upstairs”, on page 91, has been changed to “up-stairs”, to match other occurrences -in the book.</p> - -<p class="noindent">“Dead black”, on page 97, has been changed to “dead-black”, to match other -occurrences in the book.</p> - -<p class="noindent">“Pic-nic”, on page 117, has been changed to “picnic”, to match other occurrences -in the book.</p> - -<p class="noindent">“Court-yard”, on page 164, has been changed to “courtyard”, to match other occurrences -in the book.</p> - -<p class="noindent">“Good-night”, on pages 177 and 201, have been changed to “good night”, to match other -occurrences in the book.</p> - -<p class="noindent">“Savoir-faire”, on page 174, has been changed to “savoir faire”, to match other -occurrences in the book.</p> - -<p class="noindent">“Down town”, on pages 201 and 204, have been changed to “down-town”, to match other -occurrences in the book.</p> - -<p class="noindent">Non-English words and spellings have been transcribed as typeset.</p></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRIME OF HENRY VANE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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