CHAPTER IV.
Vane's dressing-room was a tasteful chamber, cool and light. Its walls,its furniture, and its hangings told of a wide range of interest. Therewas nowhere any obvious bias; the aesthetic was no more insistent thanthe sporting. Orson Vane loved red-haired women as Henner painted them,and he played the aristocratic waltzes of Chopin; but he also valued thecruel breaking-bit that he had brought home from Texas, and read theracing-column in the newspaper quite as carefully as he did the doingsof his society. Some hint of this diversity of tastes showed in this,the most intimate room of his early mornings. There were some of thoseruddy British prints that are now almost depressingly conventional withmen of sporting habits; signed photographs of more or less prominent andpersonable personages were scattered pell-mell. All the chairs andlounges were of wicker; so much so that some of the men who hobnobbedwith Vane declared that a visit to his dressing-room was as good as ayachting cruise.
The morning was no longer young. On the avenue the advance guard of thefashionable assault upon the shopping district was already astir. Thelanguorous heat that reflects from the town's asphalt was gaining inpower momentarily.
Orson Vane, fresh from a chilling, invigorating bath, a Japanese robe ofexquisite coolness his only covering, sat regarding an addition to hisfurniture. It had come while he slept. It was proof that the adventureof the night had not been a mere figment of his dreams.
He touched a bell. To the man who answered the call, he said:
"Nevins, I have bought a new mirror. You are to observe a few simplerules in regard to this mirror. In the first place, to avoid confusion,it is always to be called the New Mirror. Is that plain?
"Quite so, sir."
"I may have orders to give about it, or notes to send, or things of thatsort, and I want no mistakes made. In the next place, the cord thatuncovers the mirror is never to be pulled, never to be touched, save atmy express order. Not--under any circumstances. I do not wish the mirrorused. Have you any curiosity left, Nevins?
"None, sir."
"So much the better. In Lord Keswick's time, I think, you still had atouch of that vice, curiosity. Your meddling got you into something of ascrape. Do you remember?"
"Oh, sir," said the man, with a little gesture of shame and pain, "youdidn't need reminding me. Have I ever forgotten your saving me from thatfoolishness?"
"You're right, Nevins; I think I can trust you. But this is a greatertrust than any of the others. A great deal depends; mark that; a verygreat deal. It is not an ordinary mirror, this one; not one of theothers compares with it; it is the gem of my collection. Not a breath isto touch it, save as I command."
"I'll see to it, sir."
"Any callers, Nevins?"
"Mr. Moncreith, sir, looked in, but left no word. And the postman."
"No duns, Nevins?"
"Not in person, sir."
"Dear me! Is my position on the wane? When a man is no longer dunned hiscredit is either too good or too bad; or else his social position isdeclining." He picked up the tray with the letters, ran his eye overthem quickly, and said, "Thank the stars; they still dun me by post.There should be a law against it; yet it is as sweet to one's vanity asan angry letter from a woman. Nevins, is the day dull or garish?"
"It's what I should call bright, sir."
"Then you may lay out some gloomy clothes for me. I would not add to theheat wittingly. And, Nevins!"
"Yes sir."
"If anyone calls before I breakfast, unless it happens to be ProfessorVanlief,--Vanlief, Nevins, of the Vanliefs of New Amsterdam--say I amindisposed."
He dressed himself leisurely, thinking of the wonderful adventures intoliving that lay before him. He rehearsed the simple instructions thatVanlief had given him the night before. It was all utterly simple. Asone looked into the mirror, the spirit of that one lay on the surface,waiting for the next person that glanced that way. There followed acomplete exodus of the spirit from the one body into the other. Therecipient was himself plus the soul of the other. The exodus left thatother in a state something like physical collapse. There would be, forthe recipient of the new personality, a sense of double consciousness;the mind would be like a palimpsest, the one will and the one habitimposed upon the other. The fact that the person whose spirit passedfrom him upon the magic mirror was left more or less a wreck was causefor using the experiment charily, as the Professor took pains to warnOrson. There was a certain risk. The mirror might be broken; one couldnever tell. It would be better to pick one's subjects wisely, alwayswith a definite purpose. This man might be used to teach that side oflife; that man another. It was not a thing to toy with. It was to beplayed with as little as human life itself. Vivisection was a pastime tothis; this implicated the spirit, the other only the body.
Consideration of the new avenues opening for his intelligence hadalready begun to alter Vane's outlook on life. Persons who remarked him,a little later, strolling the avenue, wondered at the brilliance of hislook. He seemed suddenly sprayed with a new youth, a new enthusiasm. Itwas not, as some of his conversations of that morning proved, an utterlapse into optimism on his part; but it was an exchange of the merepassive side of pessimism for its healthier, more buoyant side. He wasable to smile to himself as he met the various human marionettes of theavenue; the persons whose names you would be sure to read every Sundayin the society columns, and who seemed, consequently, out of place inany more aristocratic air. He bowed to the newest beauty, he waved ahand to the most perennial of the faded beaux. The vociferous attire ofthe actors, who idled conspicuously before the shop-windows, caused himinward shouts of laughter; a day or so ago the same sight would haveembittered his hour for him.
At Twenty-third street something possessed him to patronize one of theSicilian flower-sellers. The man had, happily, not importuned him; hemerely held his wares, and waited, mutely. Orson put a sprig oflily-of-the-valley into his coat.
Before he left his rooms he had spent an hour or so writing curt notesto the smartest addresses in town. All his invitations were declined byhim; a trip to Cairo, he had written, would keep him from town for sometime. He took this ruse because he felt that the complications of hiscoming experiment might be awkward; it was as well to pave the way.Certainly he could not hope to fulfil his social obligations in the timeto come. An impression that he was abroad was the best way out of thedilemma. The riddance from fashionable duties added to his gaiety; hefelt like a school-boy on holiday.
It was in this mood that he saw, on the other side of the avenue, afigure that sent a flush to his skin. There was no mistaking thatwonderful hair; in the bright morning it shone with a glow a trifle lessgarish than under the electric light, but it was the same, the same. Tomake assurance surer, there, just under the hat--a hat that no mere malecould have expressed in phrases, a thing of gauze and shimmer--lay aspray of lilies-of-the-valley. The gown--Vane knew at a glance that itwas a beautiful gown and a happy one, though as different as possiblefrom the filmy thing she had worn when first he saw her, in the mirror,at night.
At first unconsciously, and then with quite brazen intent, he foundhimself keeping pace, on his side of the street, with the girl opposite.He knew not what emotion possessed him; no hint of anything despicablecame to him; he had forgotten himself utterly, and he was merelyfollowing some sweet, blind impulse. Orson Vane was a man who hadtasted the froth and dregs of his town no less thoroughly than othermen; there were few sensations, few emotions, he had not tried. Almostthe only sort of woman he did not know was The woman. In the year of hismajority he had made a summer of it on the Sound in his steam yacht, andhis enemies declared that all the harbors he had anchored in were leftempty of both champagne and virtue. Yet not even his bitterest enemy hadever accused him of anything vulgar, brazen, coarse, conspicuous.
Luke Moncreith was a friend of Vane's, there was no reason for doubtingthat. But even he experienced a little shock when he met Vane, wasunseen of him, and was then conscious, in a quick turn of the head, thatVane's eyes, his enti
re vitality, were upon a woman's figure across theavenue.
"The population of the Bowery, of Forty-second street, and of theTenderloin," said Moncreith to himself, "have a name for that sort ofthing." He clicked his tongue upon his teeth once or twice. "Poor Orson!Is it the beginning of the end? Last night he seemed a little mad. PoorOrson!" Then, with furtive shame at his bad manners, he turned about andwatched the two. Even at that distance the sunlight glowed like a caressupon the hair of her whom Orson followed. "The girl," exclaimedMoncreith, "the girl of the mirror." He came to a halt before aphotographer's window, the angle of which gave him a view of severalblocks behind.
Orson Vane, in the meanwhile, was as if there was but one thing in lifefor him: a meeting with this radiant creature with the lilies. Once hethought he caught a sidelong glance of hers; a little smile even hoveredan instant upon her lips; yet, at that distance, he could not be sure.None of the horrible things occurred to him as possibilities; that shemight be an adventuress, or a mere masquerading shop-girl, or an adroitsoubrette. No tangible intention came to the young man; he had not madeit clear to himself whether he would keep on, and on, and on, until shecame to her own door; whether he would accost her; whether he wouldleave all to chance; or whether he would fashion circumstances to hisend.
The girl turned into a little bookshop that, as it happened, was one ofVane's familiar haunts. It was a place where one could always find thenew French and German things, and where the shopman was not a mereinstrument for selling whatever rubbish publishers chose to shoot at thepublic. When Vane entered he found this shopman, who nodded smilingly athim, busy with a bearded German. The girl stood at a little table,passing her slim fingers lovingly over the titles of the books that laythere. It was evident that she had no wish for advice from the assistantwho hovered in the background. She did not so much as glance at him.Her eyes were all for her friends in print. She did look up, the veriesttrifle, it is true, when Orson came in; it was so swift, so shy a lookthat he, in a mist of emotions, could not have sworn to it. As for him,a boyish boldness took him to the other side of the table at which shestood; he bent over the books, and his hands almost touched her fingers.In that little, quiet nook, he became, all of a moment, once more ayouth of twenty; he felt the first shy stirrings of tenderness, ofworship. The names of the volumes swam for him in a mere haze. He sawnothing save only the little figure before him, the shimmer of rose uponher face passing into the ruddier shimmer of her hair; the perfume ofher lilies and some yet subtler scent, redolent of fairest linen, mostfragile laces and the utterest purity, came over him like a glow.
And then the marvel, the miracle of her voice!
"Oh, Mr. Vane," he heard her saying, "do help me!" Their eyes met and hewas conscious of a bewildering beauty in hers; it was with quite aneffort that he did not, then and there, do something absurd and stupid.His hesitation, his astonishment, cost him a second or so; before hecaught his composure again, she was explaining, sweetly, plaintively,"Help me to make up my mind. About a book."
"Why did you add that?" he asked, his wits sharp now, and his voicestill a little unsteady. "There are so many other things I would like tohelp you in. A book? What sort of a book? One of those stories wherethe men are all eight feet high, and wear medals, and the women are allmodels for Gibson? Or one of those aristocratic things where nobody isless than a prince, except the inevitable American, who is a newspaperman and an abomination? Or is it, by any chance," he paused, and droppedhis voice, as if he were approaching a dreadful disclosure, "poetry?"
She shook her head. The lilies in her hair nodded, and her smile came uplike a radiance in that dark little corner. And, oh, the music in herlaugh! It blew ennui away as effectually as a storm whirls away a leaf.
"No," she said, "it is none of those things. I told you I had not madeup my mind."
"It is a thing you should never attempt. Making up the mind is atemptation only the bravest of us can resist. One should always delegatethe task to someone else."
The girl frowned gently. "If it is the fashion to talk like that," shesaid, "I do not want to be in the fashion."
He took the rebuke with a laugh. "It is hard," he pleaded, "to keep outof the fashion. Everything we do is a fashion of one sort or another."He glanced at her wonderful hat, at the gown that held her so closely,so tenderly. "I am sure you are in the fashion," he said.
"If Mr. Orson Vane tells me so, I must believe it," she answered. "But Iwear only what suits me; if the fashion does not suit me, I avoid thefashion."
"But you cannot avoid beauty," he urged, "and to be fair is always thefashion."
She turned her eyes to him full of reproach. They said, as plainly asanything, "How crude! How stupidly obvious!" As if she had reallyspoken, he went on, in plain embarassment:
"I beg your pardon. I--I am very silly this morning. Something has goneto my head. I really don't think I'd better advise you about anything toread. I--"
"Oh," she interrupted, already full of forgiveness, since it was not inher nature to be cruel for more than a moment at a time, "but you must.I am really desperate. All I ask is that you do not urge a fashionablebook, a book of the day, or a book that should be in the library ofevery lady. I am afraid of those books. They are like the bores oneturns a corner to avoid."
"You make advice harder and harder. Is it possible you really want abook to read, rather than to talk about?"
"I really do," she admitted, "I told you I had no thought about thefashion."
"You are like a figure from the Middle Ages," he said, "with your notionabout books."
"Am I so very wrinkled?" she asked. She put her hand to her veil, with agesture of solicitous inquiry. "To be young," she sighed, with a pout,"and yet to seem old. I am quite a tragedy."
"A goddess," he murmured, "but not of tragedy." He laughed sharply, andtook a book from the table, using it to keep his eyes from the witcheryof her as he continued: "Don't you see why I'm talking such nonsense? Ifit meant prolonging the glimpse of you, there's no end, simply no end,to the rubbish I could talk!"
"And no beginning," she put in, "to your sincerity."
"Oh, I don't know. One still has fits and starts of it! There's notelling what might not be done; it might come back to one, likechildishness in old age." He put down the book, and looked at her insomething like appeal. "There is such a thing as a sincerity one isashamed of, that one hides, and disguises, and that the world refuses tosee. The world? The world always means an individual. In this case theworld is--"
"The world is yours, like _Monte Cristo_," she interposed, "howembarassed you must feel. The responsibility must be enervating! I havealways thought the clever thing for _Monte Cristo_ to have done was tolose the world; to hide it where nobody could find it again." She tappedher boot with her parasol, charmingly impatient. "I suppose," shesighed, "I shall have to ask that stupid clerk for a book, after all. Helooks as if he would far rather sell them by weight."
"No, no, I couldn't allow that. Consider me all eagerness to aid you. Isit to be love, or ghosts, or laughter?"
"Love and laughter go well together," she said. "I want a book I canlove and laugh with, not at."
"I know," he nodded. "The tear that makes the smile come after. You wantsomething charming, something sweet, something that will tastepleasantly no matter how often you read it. A trifle, and yet--atreasure. Such a book as, I dare say, every writer dreams of doing oncein his life; the sort of book that should be bound in rose-leaves. Andyou expect me to betray a treasure like that to you? And my reward? Butno, I beg your pardon; I have my reward now, and here, and the debt isstill mine. I can merely put you in the way of a printed page; whileyou--" He stopped, roving for the right word. His eyes spoke what hisvoice could not find. He finished, lamely, and yet aptly enough,"You--are you."
"I don't believe," she declared, with the most arch elevation of thedarkest eyebrows, "that you know one book from another. You are animpostor. You are sparring for time. I have given you too much time asit is. I am go
ing." She picked up her skirts with one slim hand, turnedon a tiny heel, and looked over her shoulder with an air, amischievousness, that made Orson ache, yes, simply ache with curiosityabout her. He put out a hand in expostulation.
"Please," he pleaded, "please don't go. I have found the book. I reallyhave. But you must take my word for it. You mustn't open it till you areat home." He handed it to the clerk to be wrapped up. "And now," he wenton, "won't you tell me something? I--upon my honor, I can't think wherewe met?"
"One hardly expects Mr. Orson Vane to remember all the young women insociety," she smiled. "Besides, if I must confess: I am only just whatsociety calls 'out.' I have seen Mr. Orson Vane: but he has not seen me.Mr. Vane is a leader; I am--" She shrugged her shoulder, raised hereyebrows, pursed up her mouth, oh, to a complete gesture that was theprettiest, most bewildering finish to any sentence ever uttered.
"Oh," said Orson, "but you are mistaken. I have seen you. No longer agothan last night. In--"
"In a mirror," she laughed. Then she grew suddenly quite solemn. "Oh,you mustn't think I didn't know who you were. It was all very rash ofme, and very improper, my speaking to you, just now, but--"
"It was very sweet," he interposed.
"But," she went on, not heeding his remark at all, "I knew you so wellby sight, and I had really been introduced to you once,--one of a bevyof debutantes, merely an item in a chorus--and, besides, my father--"
"Your father?" repeated Orson, jogging his memory, "you don't mean tosay--"
"My father is Augustus Vanlief," she said.
He took a little time to digest the news. The clerk handed him the bookand the change. He saw, now, whence that charm, that grace, that beautycame; he recalled that the late Mrs. Vanlief had been one of theWaddells; there was no better blood in the country. With the name, too,there came the thought of the wonderful revelations that were presentlyto come to him, thanks to this girl's father. A sort of dizzinesstouched him: he felt a quick conflict between the wish to worship thisgirl, and the wish to probe deeper into life. It was with a very realeffort that he brushed the charm of her from him, and relapsed, again,into the man who meant to know more of human life than had ever beenknown before.
He took out a silver pencil and held it poised above the book.
"This book," he said, "is for you, you know, not for your father. Yourfather and I are to be great friends but--I want to be friends, also,with--" he looked a smiling appeal, "with--whom?"
"With Miss Vanlief," she replied, mockingly. "My other name? I hate it;really I do. Perhaps my father will tell you."
She had given him the tip of her fingers, her gown had swung perfume asit followed her, and she was out and away before he could do more thangive her the book, bow her good-bye, and stand in amaze at herimpetuousness, her verve. The thought smote him that, on the nightbefore, he had seen her, in the mirror, and spurned the notion of herbeing other than a sham, a mockery. How did he know, even now, that shewas other than that? Yet, what had happened to him that he had been ableso long to stay under her charm, to believe in her, to wish for her, tofeel that she was hardly mortal, but some strange, sweet, splendiddream? Was he the same man who, only a few hours ago, had held himselfshorn of all the primal emotions? He beat these questionings back andforth in his mind; now doubting himself, now doubting this girl. Surelyshe had not, in that dining-room, been sitting with her father? Would henot have seen them together? Perhaps she was with some of her family'swomenfolk? Yes; now he remembered; she had been at a table with severalother ladies, all elderly. He wished he knew the name one might callher, if ... if....
Luke Moncreith came into the shop. Orson caught a shadow of a frown onthe other's face. Moncreith's voice was sharp and bitter when he spoke.
"Been buying the shop?" he asked.
"No," said Orson, in some wonder. "Only one book."
"Hope you'll like it," said the other, with a manner that meant the veryopposite.
"I? Oh, I read it ages ago. It was for somebody else. You seem verycurious about it?"
"I am. You aren't usually the man to dawdle in bookshops."
"Dawdle?" Orson turned on the other sharply. "What the deuce do youmean? Are you my keeper, or what? If I choose to, I can _live_ in thisshop, can't I?"
"Oh, Lord, yes! Looks odd, just the same, you trailing in here after apetticoat, and hanging around for--" he pulled out his watch,--"for agood half hour."
Orson burst out in a sort of clenched breath of rage. He kept thephrases down with difficulty. "Better choose your words," he said. "Idon't like your words, and your watch be damned. Since when have my--myfriends taken to timing my actions? It's a blessing I'm going abroad."
He turned and walked out of the shop, fiercely, swiftly. As the freshair struck his face, he put his hand to it, and shook his head,wonderingly. "What's the matter with Moncreith? With me?" He thought ofthe title of the book he had just given away. "Are we all as mad asthat?" he asked himself.
The title was "March Hares."