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.