The time that had passed since he began the experiment with the
Professor's mirror now filled Vane with horror. The life that had seemed
so splendid, so triumphant to him a short while ago, now presented
itself to him as despicable, mean, hateful. Now that he had safely
ousted the soul of Reginald Hart he loathed the things that, under the
dominance of that soul, he had done. The quick feeling of success that
he had expected from his adventure into the realm of the mind was not
his at all; his emotions were mixed, and in that mixture hatred of
himself was uppermost. It was true: he had succeeded. The thoughts, the
deeds of another man had become his thoughts, his deeds. The entire
point of view had been, for the time, changed. But, where he had
expected to keep the outland spirit in subjection, it was the reverse
that had happened; the usurping soul had been in positive dominance; he
had been carried along relentlessly by the desires and the reflections
of that other.
The fact that he knew, now, to the very letter, the mind that animated
that fellow, Reginald Hart, was small consolation to him. The odium of
that reputation was inescapably his, Orson Vane's. Oh, the things he had
said,--and thought,--and done! He had not expected that any man's mind
could be so horrible as that. He thought of the visitation he had
conjured upon himself, and so thinking, shuddered. How was he ever to
elude the contempt that his masquerade, if he could call it so, would
bring him?
Above all, that scene with Miss Vanlief came back to him with a bitter
pang. What did it profit him, now, to fathom the foul depths of Reginald
Hart's mind concerning any ever so girlish creature? It was he, Orson
Vane, for all that it was possible to explain to the contrary, who had
phrased Miss Vanlief's beauty in such abominable terms.
Consternation sat on his face like a cloud. He could think of no way out
of the dark alley into which he had put himself.
Each public appearance of his now had its tortures. Men who had
respected him now avoided him; women to whom he had once condescended
were now on an aggravating plane of intimacy. Sometimes he could almost
feel himself being pointed out on the street.
The mental and physical reaction was beginning to trace itself on his
face. He feared his Florentine mirrors now almost as much as the
Professor's. The blithe poise had left him. He brooded a good deal. His
insight into another nature than his own filled him with a sense of
distaste for the human trend toward evil.
He spent some weeks away from town, merely to pick up his health again.
His strength returned a little, but the joy of life came back but
tardily.
On his first day in town he met Moncreith. There was an ominous wrinkle
gathering in the other's forehead, but Vane braved all chance of a
rebuff.
"Luke," he said, "don't you know I've been ill? You can't think how ill
I've been. Do you remember I told you I was going abroad? I've been
abroad, mentally; I have, Luke, really I have. It's like a bad dream to
me. You know what I mean."
Moncreith found his friend rather pathetic. At their last meeting he had
been hot in jealousy of Orson. Now he could afford to pity him. He had
made Jeannette Vanlief's acquaintance, and he stood quite well with her.
He had made up his mind to stand yet better; he was, in fact, in love
with her. He was quite sure that Vane had quite put himself out of that
race. So he took the other's hand, and walked amicably to the Town and
Country Club with him.
"You have been doing strange things," he ventured.
"Strange," echoed Vane, "strange isn't the word! Ghastly,
horrible--awful things I've been doing. I wish I could explain. But
it--it isn't my secret, Luke. All I can say is: I was ill. I am, I hope,
quite well again."
It seemed an age since he had spent an hour or so in his favorite club.
The air of the members was unmistakably frosty. The conversation shrank
audibly. He was glad when Moncreith found a secluded corner and bore him
to it. But he was not a bright companion; his own thoughts were too
depressing to allow of his presenting a sparkling surface to the world.
They talked in mere snatches, in curt syllables.
"I've seen a good deal of Miss Vanlief," said Moncreith, with conscious
triumph.
"Oh," said Vane, with a start, "Miss Vanlief? So you know her? Is
she--is she well?"
"Quite. I see her almost every day."
"Fortunate man!" sighed Vane. He was a little weary of life. He wanted
to tell somebody what his dreams about Miss Vanlief were; he wanted to
cry out loud, "She is the dearest, sweetest girl in the world!" merely
to efface, in his own mind, the alien thought of her that had come to
him weeks ago. Moncreith did not seem the one to utter this cry to.
Moncreith was too engrossed in his own success. He could bear
Moncreith's company no longer, not just then. He muttered lame words; he
stumbled out to the avenue.
Some echo of an instinct turned his steps to the little bookshop.
It was quite empty of customers. He passed his fingers over the back of
books that he thought Miss Vanlief might have handled. It was an absurd
whim, a childish trick. Yet it soothed him perceptibly. Our nerves
control our bodies and our nerves are slaves of our imaginations.
He was turning to go, when his eye fell on a parcel lying on the
counter. It was addressed to "Miss Jeannette Vanlief."
"Jeannette, Jeannette!" he said the name over to himself time and again.
It brought the image of her before him more plainly than ever. The
sunset glint in her hair, the roses and lilies of her skin, the melody
in her voice! The charm with which she had first met him, in that very
shop. It all came to him keenly. The more remote the possibility of his
gaining her seemed, the more he hugged the thought of her. He admitted
to himself now, all the more since his excursion into an abominable side
of human nature, that she was the most unspoilt creature in his world. A
girl with that face, that hair, that wit, was sure to be of a charm that
could never lose its flavor; the allurement of her was a thing that
could never die.
Nothing but thoughts of this girl came to him on the way to his rooms.
Once in his own place, he felt that his reflections on Miss Vanlief had
served him as a tonic. He felt an energy once more, a vigor, a desire
for action. In that mood he turned fiercely upon some of the drawings on
his walls. He called Nevins, and had a heap made of the things that now
filled him with loathing.
"All of the Beardsleys must come down," he ordered. "No; not all. The
portrait of Mantegna may stay. That has nobility; the others have the
genius of hidden evil. They take too much of the trapping from our
horrible human nature. The funeral procession by Willette may hang; his
Montmartre things are trivially indecent. Heine and his grotesqueries
may stay in jail for all I care. Leave one or two of Thoeny's blue
dragoons. Leandre's crowned heads will do me no harm; I can see past
their cruelties. But take the Gibsons away; they are relegated to the
matinee girl. What is to be done with them? Really, Nevins, don't worry
me about such things. Sell them, give them, lose them: I don't care.
There's only one man in the world who'd really adore them, and he--" he
clenched his hands as he thought of Hart,--"he is a worm, a worm that
dieth and yet corrupts everything about him."
He sat down, when this clearance was over, and wrote a rather long
letter to Professor Vanlief. He told as much as he could bring himself
to tell of the result of the experiment. He begged the Professor,
knowing the circumstances as no other did, to do what was possible to
reinstate him, Vane, in the esteem of Miss Vanlief. As to whether he
meant to go on with further experiments; he had not yet made up his
mind. There were consequences, obligations, following on this clear
reading of other men's souls, that he had not counted upon.