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.