CHAPTER VII.
Dawn found Orson Vane nodding in a hansom. He had told the man to driveto Claremont. The Palisades were just getting the first rosy streaks thesun was putting forth. The Hudson still lay with a light mist on it. Theascent to Claremont, in sunshine so clustered with beauty, was nowdeserted. A few carts belonging to the city were dragging alongsleepily. Harlem was at the hour when the dregs of one day still taintthe morn of the next one.
Vane was drowsy. He felt the need of a fillip. He did not like to thinkof getting back to his rooms and taking a nap. It was still too early,it seemed, for anything to eat or drink. He spied the Fort Lee ferry,and with it a notion came to him. The cabman was willing. In a fewminutes he was aboard the ferry, and the cooler air that sweeps theHudson was laving him. On the Jersey side he found a sleepy innkeeperwho patched up a breakfast for him. He had, fortunately, some smokablecigars in his clothes. The day was well on when he reached the New Yorkside of the river again, and gave "The Park!" as the cabman's orders.
His body now restored to energy again, his mind recounted the successesof the night. He really had nothing much to wish for. The men envied himto the point of hatred; the women adored him. He was the pet of thesmartest people. He was shrewd enough, too, to be petted for aconsideration; his adroitness in sales of Red Ribbon added comfortablyto his income. He took pride in this, as if there had ever been a time,for several generations, when the name of Vane had not stood good for amillion or so.
The Park was not well tenanted. Some robust members of the smart setwere cantering about the bridle paths, and now and then a carriageturned a corner; but the people who preferred the Park for its own saketo the Park of the afternoon drive were, evidently, but few. Vane feltquite neglected; he was still able to count the number of times that hehad bowed to familiars. The deserted state of the Park somewhatdiscounted the tonic effects of its morning freshness. Nature wasnothing unless it was a background for man. The country was a place fromwhich you could come to town. Still--there was really nothing better todo, this fine morning. He rather dreaded the thought of his rooms afterthe brilliance of the night.
His meditations ceased at approach of a girlish figure on horseback, agroom at a discreet distance behind.
It was Miss Vanlief.
He saw that she saw him, yet he saw no welcome in her eyes. He rappedfor the hansom to stop; got out, and waved his hat elaborately at theyoung woman. She, in sheer politeness, had reined in her horse.
"A sweet day," he minced, "and jolly luck my meeting you! Thought it wasrather dull in the old Park, till you turned up. Sweet animal you'reon." He looked up with that air that, the night before, had been sobewitching. Somehow, as the girl eyed him, he felt haggard. She was notsmiling, not the least little bit.
"I have read about the affair at Mrs. Sclatersby's," she said.
"Really? Dreadful hurry these newspapers are always in, to be sure. Itwas really a great lark."
"It must have been," was her icy retort. She beckoned to the groom."That--that sheet," she ordered, sharply, holding out one gauntletedhand. The groom gave her the folded newspaper. She began to read fromit, in a bitter monotone:
"The antics of Mr. Orson Vane," she read, "for some time the subject ofcomment in society, have now reached the point where they deserve thecensure of publicity. His doings at a certain fashionable dinner of lastnight were the subject of outspoken disgust at the prominent clubslater. Now that the case is openly discussed, it may be repeated that aprominent publication recently had occasion to refuse print to adistinctly questionable photograph of this young man, submitted, it isalleged, by himself. In the more staid social circles, one wonders howmuch longer Mrs. Carlos and the other leaders of the smartest set willcontinue to countenance such behavior."
Vane, as she read, was enjoying every inch of her. What freshness, whatgrace! What a Lady Godiva she would have made!
"Sweet of you to take such interest," he observed, as she handed thepaper to the groom. "Malice, you know, sheer malice. Dare say I forgotto give that paper some news that I gave the others; they take that sortof thing so bitterly, you know. As for the photo--it was really awfullycunning. I'll send you one. Oh, must you go? I'm so cut up! Charmingchat we've had, I'm sure."
She had given her horse a cut with the whip, had sent Vane a stare ofthe most open contempt, and was now off and away. Vane stood staringafter her. "Very nice little filly," he murmured. "Very!"
Then he gave his house number to the cabman.
Turning into Park avenue, at Thirty-Ninth street, the horse slipped onthe asphalt. The hansom spun on one wheel, and then crashed against alamp-post. Vane was almost stunned, though there was no mark on himanywhere. He felt himself all over, but he could feel not as much as alump. But his head ached horribly; he felt queerly incapable of thought.Whatever it was that had happened to him, it had stunned something inhim. What that something was he did not realize even as he told Nevins,who opened the door to him in some alarm:
"Send the cab over to Mr. Reginald Hart's. Say I must--do you hear,Nevins?--I must have him here within the hour--if he has to come in achair!"
Not even when he let the veil glide from the new mirror did heunderstand what part of him was stunned. He moved about in a sort ofhalf wakefulness. The time he spent before Hart's arrival was all astupor, spent on a couch, with eyes closed.
Hart came in feebly, leaning on a stick.
"Funny thing of you to do," he piped, "sending for me like this. Whatthe--" He straightened himself in front of the new mirror, and, for aninstant, swayed limply there. Then his stick took an upward swing, andhe minced across the room vigorously. "Why, Vane," he said, "not ill,are you? Jove, you know, I've had a siege, myself. Feel nice and fitthis minute, though. Shouldn't wonder if the effort to get here had doneme good. What was the thing you wanted me for?"
Vane shook his head, feebly. "Upon my word, Hart, I don't know. I had anaccident; cab crushed me; I was a little off my head, I think. All amistake."
"Sorry, I'm sure," lisped Hart, "hope it won't be anything real. I tellyou I feel quite out of things. All the other way with you, eh! Hearyou're no end of a choice thing with the _cafe au lait_ gang. Well,adios!"
Vane lay quite still after the other had gone. When he spoke, it was tosay, to the emptiness of the room, but nodding to where Hart had laststood:
"What a worm! What an utter worm!"
The voice was once more the voice of Orson Vane.
As realization of that came to him, he spoke again, so loud that Nevins,without, heard it.
"Thank God," he said.