It was a morning such as the wild flowers, out in the suburban meadows,
must have thought fit for a birthday party. As for the town, it lost,
under that keen air and gentle sun, whatever of garish and unhealthy
glamour it had displayed the night before.
"The morning," Orson Vane had once declared, in a moment of revelation,
"is God's, and the night is man's." He was speaking, of course, of the
town. In the severe selectiveness that had grown upon him after much
rout and riot through other lands, he pretended that the town was the
only spot on the map. Certainly this particular morning seemed to bear
out something of this saying; it swept away the smoke and the taint, the
fever and the flush of the night before; the visions of limelights and
glittering crystals and enmillioned vice fled before the gust of ozone
that came pouring into the streets. Before night, to be sure, man would
have asserted himself once more; the pomp and pageant of the primrose
path would have ousted, with its artificial charm, the clean, sweet
freshness of the morning.
The grim houses on upper Fifth avenue put on semblance of life
reluctantly that morning. Houses take on the air of their inmates; these
houses wore their best manner only under artificial lights. Surly grooms
and housemaids went muttering and stumbling about the areas. Sad-faced
wheelmen flashed over the asphalt, cursing the sprinkling carts. It was
not too early for the time-honored preoccupation of the butcher cart,
which consists of turning corners as if the world's end was coming.
Pallid clubmen strode furtively in the growing sunshine. To them, as to
the whole town, the sun and its friend, the breeze, came as a tonic and
a cure.
So strange a thing is the soul of man that Orson Vane, riding towards
the Park that morning, caught only vague, fleeting impressions of the
actual beauty of the day. He simply wondered, every foot of the way to
McGowan's Pass, whether Miss Vanlief played golf. The first thing he
said to her after they had exchanged greetings, was:
"Of course you golf?"
She looked at him in alarm. There was something--something, but what was
it?--in his voice, in his eye. She had expected a reference to the day
before, to their infantile escapade on the roof of the coach. Instead,
this banale, this stupid, this stereotyped phrase! Her flowerlike face
clouded; she gave her mare the whip.
"No," she called out, "I cannot bear the game." His horse caught the
pace with difficulty; the groom was left far out of sight, beyond a
corner. But the diversion had not touched Vane's trend of thought at
all.
"Oh," he assured her, when the horses were at an amble again, "it's one
of those things one has to do. Some things have to be done, you know;
society won't stand for anything less, you know, oh, no. I have to play
golf, you know; part of my reputation."
"I didn't know," she faltered. She tried to remember when Orson Vane had
ever been seen on either the expert or the duffer list at the golf
matches.
"Oh, yes; people expect it of me. If I don't play I have to arrange
tournaments. Handicapping is great fun; ever try it? No? You should.
Makes one feel quite like a judge at sessions. Oh, there's nothing like
golf. Not this year, at least. Next year it may be something else. I may
have to take to polo or tennis. One is expected to show the way, you
know; a man in my position--" He looked at her with a kind of 'bland,
blunt, clumsy egoism, that made her wonder where was the Orson Vane of
yesterday. This riddle began to sadden her. Perhaps it was true, as she
had heard somewhere, that the man was mentally unbalanced; that he had
his--well, his bad days. She sighed. She had looked forward to this ride
in the Park; she admitted that to herself. Not in a whole afternoon
spent with Luke Moncreith had she felt such happy childishness stirring
in her as yesterday, in the hour with Orson Vane. And now--She sighed.
The hum of an approaching automobile reached them, the glittering
vehicle proclaiming its progress in that purring stage whisper that is
still the inalienable right of even the newest "bubble" machine. The
coat worn by the smart young person on the seat would have shocked the
unenlightened, for that sparkling, tingling morning it struck the exact
harmonious note of artifice.
Orson Vane bowed. It was "the" Miss Carlos. Just as there is only one
Mrs. Carlos, so there is only one Miss Carlos.
"She plays a decent game," said Vane to his companion.
"Of life?"
"No; golf." He looked at her in amazement. Life! What was life compared
to golf? Life? For most people it was, at best, a foozle. Nearly
everybody pressed; very few followed through, and the bunkers--good
Lord, the bunkers!
"I'm thinking of writing a golfing novel," began Orson, after an
interval in which he managed to wonder whether one couldn't play golf
from horseback.
"Oh," said Miss Vanlief wearily, "how does one set about it!"
He was quite unaware of her weariness. He chirped his answer with blind
enthusiasm.
"It's very easy," he declared. "There are always a lot of women, you
know, who are aching to do things in that line. You give them the
prestige of your name, that's all. One of them writes the thing; you
simply keep them from foozling the phrases now and then. Another
illustrates it."
"And does anyone buy it?"
"Oh, all the smart people do. It's one of those things one is supposed
to do. There's no particular reason or sense in it; but smart people
expect one another to read things like that. The newspapers get quite
silly over such books. Then, after novels, I think, I shall take to
having them done over for the stage? Don't you think a golfing comedy,
with a sprinkling of profanity and Scotch whiskey, would be all the
rage?"
Jeannette Vanlief reined in her mare. She looked at Orson Vane; looked
him, as much as she could, through and through. Was it all a stupid
jest? She could find nothing but dense earnestness in her face, in his
eyes. Oh, the riddle was too tiresome, too hopeless. It was simply not
the same man at all! She gave it up, gave him up.
"Do you mind," she said, "if I ride home now? I'm tired."
It should have been a blow in the face, but Orson Vane never so much as
noticed it.
"Tired?" he repeated. "Oh; all right. We'll turn about. Rather go back
alone? Oh, all right. Wish you'd learn to play golf; you really must!"
And upon that he let her canter away, the groom following, some little
wonder on his impassive front.
As for Jeannette Vanlief she burst into her father's room a little
later, and then into tears.
"And I wanted to love him!" she wailed presently, from out her confusion
and her distress.
The Professor was patting her hair, and wondering what in all the world
was the matter. At her speech, he thought he saw a light.
"And why not?" he asked, soothingly, "He seems quite estimable. He was
here only a moment ago?"
"Who was here?" she asked in bewilderment.
"Mr. Moncreith."
At that she laughed. The storm was over, the sunshine peeped out again.
"You dear, blind comfort, you!" she said, "What do I care if a thousand
Moncreiths--"
"Then it's Orson Vane," said the Professor, not so blind after all.
"Well, dear, and what has he been doing now?"
He listened to her rather rambling, rather spasmodic recital; listened
and grew moody, though he could scarce keep away some little mirth. He
saw through these masquerades, of course. Who else, if not he? Poor
Jeannette! So she had set her happy little heart upon that young man? A
young man who, to serve both their ends, was playing chameleon. A young
man who was mining greater secrets from the deeps of the human soul than
had ever been mined before. A wonderful young man, but--would that make
for Jeannette's happiness? At any rate he, the Professor, would have to
keep an eye open for Vane's doings. There was no knowing what strange
ways these borrowed souls might lead to. He wondered who it was that,
this time, had been rifled of his soul.
Wonder did not long remain the adjuncts of the Professor and his
daughter only. The whole world of society began to wonder, as time went
on, at the new activities of Orson Vane. Wonder ceased, presently, and
there was passive acceptance of him in his new role. Fashions, after
all, are changed so often in the more external things, that the smart
set would not take it as a surprising innovation if some people took to
changing their souls to suit the social breeze.
Orson Vane took a definite place in the world of fashion that season. He
became the arbiter of golf; he gave little putting contests for women
and children; he looked after the putting greens of a number of smart
clubs with as much care as a woman gives her favorite embroideries. He
took to the study of the Turkish language. There were rumors that he
meant to become the Minister to Turkey. He traveled a great deal, and he
published a book called "The Land of the Fez." Another little brochure
bearing his name was "The Caddy; His Ailments and Diseases." It was
rumored that he was busy in dramatization of his novel, "Five Loaves and
Two Fishes!" When Storman Pasha made his memorable visit to the States
it was Orson Vane who became his guide and friend. A jovial club of
newspaper roysterers poked fun at him by nominating him for Mayor. He
went through it all with a bland humorlessness and stubborn dignity that
nothing could affront. His indomitable energy, his intense seriousness
about everything, kept smart society unalterably loyal. He led its
cotillions, arranged its more sober functions, and was a household word
with the outsiders that reach society only through the printed page. His
novels--whether they were his own or done for him hardly matters--were
just dull enough to offend nobody. The most indolent dweller in Vanity
Fair could affect his books without the least mental exertion. The lives
of our fashionables are too full, too replete with a multitude of
interests and excitements, to allow of the concentration proper for the
reading of scintillating dialogue, or brilliant observations. Orson Vane
appeared to gauge his public admirably; he predominated in the outdoor
life, in golf, in yachting, in coaching, yet he did not allow anyone
else to dispute the region of the intellect, of indoors, with him. He
shone, with a severe dimness, in both fields.
Jeannette Vanlief, meanwhile, lost much of the sparkle she had hitherto
worn. She drooped perceptibly. The courtship of Luke Moncreith left her
listless; he persevered on the strength of his own ambition rather than
her encouragement. His daughter's looks at last began seriously to worry
Professor Vanlief. Something ought to be done. But what? It was
apparently Orson Vane's intention to keep that borrowed soul with him
for a long time. In the meanwhile Jeannette.... The Professor, the more
he considered the matter, felt the more strongly that just as he was the
one who had given Vane this power, so had he the right, if need be, to
interfere. The need was urgent. The masquerade must be put an end to.
His resolve finally taken, Professor Vanlief paid a visit to Orson
Vane's house. Vane was, as he had hoped, not at home. He
cross-questioned Nevins.
The man was only too willing to admit that his master's actions were
queer. But Mr. Vane had given him warning to that effect; he must have
felt it coming on. It was a malady, no doubt. For his part he thought it
was something that Mr. Vane would wish to cure rather than endure. He
didn't pretend to understand his master of late, but--
The Professor put a period to the man's volubility with some effort.
"I want you," he urged, "to jog your memory a little. Never mind the
symptoms. Give me straightforward answers. Now--did you touch the new
mirror, leaving it uncovered, at any time within the past few weeks?"
"Oh," was the answer, "the new mirror, is it! I knows well the uncanny
thing was sure to make trouble for me. But I gives you my word, as I
hopes to be saved, that I've never so much as brushed the dust off it,
much less taken the curtain off. It's fearsome, is that mirror, I'm
thinking. It's--"
"Then think back," pressed the Professor, again stemming the tide of the
other's talk relentlessly, "think back: was anyone, ever, at any time,
alone in Mr. Vane's rooms? Think, think!"
"I disremember," stammered Nevins. "I think not--Oh, wait! It was a long
time ago, but I think a gentleman wrote Mr. Vane a note once, and I,
having work in the other rooms, let him be undisturbed. But I told the
master about it, the minute he came in, sir. He was not the least vexed,
sir. Oh, I'm easy in my mind about that time."
"Yes, yes,--but the gentleman's name!" The Professor shook the man's
shoulder quite roughly.
"His name? Oh, it was just Mr. Spalding-Wentworth, sir, that was all."
The Professor sat down with a laugh. Spalding-Wentworth! He laughed
again.
Nevins had the air of one aggrieved. "Mr. Vane laughed, too, I remember,
when I told him. Just the minute I told him, sir, he laughed. I've
puzzled over it, time and again, why--"
The Professor left Nevins puzzling. There was no time to be lost. He
remembered now that Spalding-Wentworth had for some time been ailing.
The world, in its devotion to Orson Vane, had forgotten, almost, that
such a person as Spalding-Wentworth had ever existed. To be forgotten
one has only to disappear. Dead men's shoes are filled nowhere so
quickly as in Vanity Fair; though, to be paradoxic, for the most part
they are high-heeled slippers.
It took some little time, some work, to arrange what the Professor had
decided must be done. He went about his plans with care and skill. He
suborned Nevins easily enough, using, chiefly, the plain truth. Nevins,
with the superstition of his class, was willing to believe far greater
mysteries than the Professor half hinted at. By Nevins' aid it happened
that Orson Vane slept, one night, face to face with the polished surface
of the new mirror. In the morning it was curtained as usual.
That morning Augustus Vanlief called at the Wentworth house. He asked
for Mrs. Wentworth. He went to his point at once.
"You know who I am, I dare say, Mrs. Wentworth. You love your husband, I
am sure; you will pardon my intrusion when I tell you that perhaps I can
do something the best thing of all--for him. It is, in its way, a
matter of life and death. Do the doctors give you any hope?"
Mrs. Wentworth, her beauty now tired and touched by traces of spoilt
ambition, made a listless motion with her hands.
"I don't know why I should tell you," she said, "or why I should not.
They tell me vague things, the doctors do, but I don't believe they know
what is the matter."
"Do you?"
"I?" she looked at Vanlief, and found a challenge in his regard. "It
seems," she admitted, "as if--I hardly like to say it,--but it seems as
if there was no soul in him any more. He is a shell, a husk. The life in
him seems purely muscular. It is very depressing. Why do you think you
can do anything for Clarence, Professor? I did not know your researches
took you into medicine?"
"Ah, but you admit this is not a matter for medicine, but for the mind.
Will you allow me an experiment madame? I give you my word of honor, my
honor and my reputation, that there is no risk, and there may
be--perhaps, an entire restoration. There is--a certain operation that I
wish to try--"
"An operation? The most eminent doctors have told me such a thing would
be useless. We might as well leave my poor husband clear of the knife,
Professor."
"Oh, it is no operation, in that sense. Nothing surgical. I can hardly
explain; professional secrets are involved. If you did not know that I
am but a plodding old man of science--if I were an unknown charlatan--I
would not ask you to put faith in me. But--I give you my word, my
promise, that if you will let Mr. Wentworth come with me in my brougham
I will return with him within the hour. He will be either as he is now,
or--as he once was."
"As he once was--!" Mrs. Wentworth repeated the phrase, and the thought
brought her a keen moment of anguish that left a visible impress on her
features. "Ah," she sighed, "if I could only think such a thing
possible!" She brooded in silence a moment or two. Then she spoke.
"Very well. You will find him in the library. Prim, show the gentleman
to the library. If you can persuade him, Professor--" She smiled
bitterly. "But then, anybody can persuade him nowadays." She turned to
some embroidery as if to dismiss the subject, to show that she was
resigned even to hopeless experiments. The very fact that she was plying
the needle rather than the social sceptre was gauge of her descent from
the heights. As a matter of fact Vanlief found Wentworth amenable
enough. Wentworth was reading Marie Corelli. His mind was as empty as
that. Nothing could better define his utter lapse from intelligence. He
put the book down reluctantly as the Professor came in. He listened
without much enthusiasm. A drive? Why not? He hadn't driven much of
late, but if it was something that would please the Professor. He
remembered, through a mist, that he had known Vanlief when he himself
was a boy; his father had often spoken of Vanlief with respect. Nothing
further in the way of mental exertion came to him. He followed Vanlief
as a dog follows whoso speaks kindly to it.
The conversation between the two, in the brougham, would hardly tend to
the general entertainment. It was a thing of shreds and patches. It led
nowhither.
The brougham stopped at the door of Orson Vane's house. Nevins let them
in, whispering an assuring confidence to the professor. As they reached
the door of the dressing-room Vanlief pushed Wentworth ahead of him, and
bade him enter. He kept behind him, letting the other's body screen him
from the staring mirror.
Wentworth looked at himself. A hand traveled slowly up to his forehead.
"By Jove!" he said, hesitatingly, "I never put the curtain back, after
all." And he covered up the mirror. "Curious thing," he went on, with
energy vitalizing each word, "what possessed me to come here just now,
when I know for a fact that they're playing the Inter-State Golf
championships to-day. Dashed if I know why I didn't go!" He walked out,
plainly puzzled, clumsily heedless of Vanlief and Nevins, but--himself
once more.
Orson Vane, at just that time, was on the links of the Fifeshire Golf
Club. He was wearing a little red coat with yellow facings. He was in
the act of stooping on a green, to look along the line of his putt, when
he got to his feet in a hurried, bewildered way. He threw his putter
down on the green. He blushed all over, shaming the tint of his scarlet
coat.
"What a foolish game for a grown-up man!" he blurted out, and strode off
the grounds.
The bystanders were aghast. They could not find words. Orson Vane, the
very prophet of golf, to throw it over in that fashion! It was
inexplicable! The episode was simply maddening.
But it was remarked that the decline of golf on this side of the water
dated from that very day.