THE Crime of Henry Vane.

“——Make a fool of yourself, like Vane.”

“I am not so sure that is fair to Vane,” said John; “no one can go through what he did, and keep perfectly sound.”

“I’ll leave it to the crowd,” said the Major; “what say you, boys?”

All were unanimous. There was no excuse for a crime like Vane’s. Evidently they all knew Vane. He was damned without one dissenting voice.

“Who was Vane?” said I, “and what did he do? Which commandment did he break? He must have made merry with them all—or, rather, have kept them all to get such a judgment in this club.”

A babel of voices arose. All these men were intimate friends; and they were sitting in one of the small smoking-rooms of the Columbian Club in New York. John had just engaged himself to be married, and we had given him a dinner; or, as Pel Schuyler put it, we were “recording his mortgage.” Schuyler was a real-estate broker.

“Now, look here,” said John, “how many of you fellows know Vane personally?”

No one, apparently. There was a moment’s silence. Then the Major spoke up. “Bah!” said he, “I have heard the story these ten years.” “So have I!” chimed in several others. “My brother knew Vane in Paris,” said Pel. “I had it from Mrs. Malgam herself,” simpered Daisy Blake, fatuously.

“Well, at least, I know nothing of it,” I said; “tell it for my benefit, John.”

“Yes, yes,” cried they, “let’s hear the correct and only version according to John.”

It was that critical moment in a dinner, when the fireworks of champagne have sputtered out, and the burgundy invites to somnolence. All had lit their cigars, and felt more like listening than talking. John did not smoke.

“I will,” said he. “At that time, I was his best—I may say, his only friend.”

“And I say, still,” said the Major, “he acted like a fool and criminally. There can be no excuse for such conduct.”

John shrugged his shoulders and began. Of course, I do not mean that he told the whole story just as I have written it. He related the bare facts, with little comment and without conversations. Whether you condemned the man or excused him, John thought, his story might be understood, even if his folly were not forgiven. The crowd at the club did neither; and, perhaps, their judgment is the judgment of the world; and the world is probably right. But we may learn from folly; it is sometimes more suggestive than common sense. There is the ordinary success and there is the exceptional failure; that is pleasanter, but this is more instructive. Extreme cases fix the law.

The world is probably right; and, to those of us who are healthily adapted to our environment, the world is enough. Blessed are they who are fitted, for they shall survive. The world is enough; but the poet sang, love is enough. Shall we say, love is surplusage? The world is always right; and how virtuously the healthy world reproves what is morbid! How all the world unites in condemning him who is not fully content with itself! For such an one it cannot even spare its pity. There is a kind of personal animus in its contempt.

Let us hasten to join our little voices to swell the universal song. So John told the story—plainly and coldly, the more adversely for the lingering doubt; so we tell the story, and the doubt lessens as we state the facts, and quite vanishes as we reach the end. It is the story of a common crime, and the criminal is no friend of ours, as he was of John’s. Moreover, Schuyler called the criminal a fool.

I.

IN April, 1873, Henry Vane was sitting on the perron of a small summer house in Brittany, poking the pebbles in the driveway with his cane. He had been there for half an hour, and there was nothing in his appearance and attitude to indicate that he would not be there for half an hour more. There was one red pebble, in particular, which he had an especial desire to prod out from among the others, which were gray. But it was round and slippery, and slid about the ferruled end of his cane. After poking it some time, he desisted and held the cane in his hands in front of his knees, which, as the next step of the porch was not much lower, were as high as his chin. “C’en est fait de moi,” he muttered.

Henry Vane, though a New Yorker, had been brought up in France, and in the French language his thoughts came most readily. He had just seen, for the last time, an old friend of his—a girl, whom he had known in infancy, in childhood, in maidenhood; and whom it seemed incredible, impossible, intolerable, that he should know no more. It was upon the piazza of her uncle’s house that he was sitting; and she was to leave the next day for Switzerland.

He was of age that day, and was “his own man now.” “And hers,” he thought, bitterly. She did not love him, however; and, at his request, had just told him so.

“Décidément, c’en est fait de moi,” he muttered again, and gave the pebble a vicious dig, which sent it flying into an acacia bush that stood in a green tub by the side of the driveway.

He was twenty-one that day, and had come into his fortune. His fortune was not much—four thousand a year, left him by his grandmother and invested in government bonds. Still, twenty thousand francs made him distinctly a rentier; and twenty thousand francs seemed a good deal, shared with the girl he loved. But it seemed very little for him alone; genteel poverty in fact. He certainly could neither yacht nor race. Travelling—except en étudiant—was equally out of the question.

Vane was a flippant young fellow, with a French education; fond of the world, of which, as he then thought, he knew much. Yet the Figaro and the Bois de Boulogne and the Palais-Royal, or even the Français, did not seem to satisfy him, that day. And all for a little “Mees Anglaise!” How his friends would laugh at him! He was very young—they would say; very young for a grande passion. And then they would laugh again. But Vane felt sure that he should never get over it.

What the deuce did fellows do in his position? He felt a wild desire for adventure and excitement; but excitement and adventure were expensive; unless there happened to be a war, and you went officially. But he had not many illusions of romance in war. He knew men who had been at Woerth and Gravelotte. Then there was travel. But this, also, was expensive. Old Prunier, the Professor, had made an expedition through Soudan the year before, and it had cost him eight hundred thousand francs. Moreover, you had to be up on rocks and beetles and things, to make your trip of any use to the world. And Vane had not yet given up all idea of being of use in the world. Besides, even Prunier’s expedition had not ended in much, except a row with the Portuguese missionaries on the subject of the slave trade. These Christian slavers had met Prunier’s remonstrances with the plausible argument that it was better for the negroes to be slaves in a Christian country, and save their souls, than free on earth and damned when they died. Prunier had consequently reported

a crying need for a better article of missionary in Central Africa. But Vane could not go as a missionary. He felt that his confidence in Providence, at that moment, was not hardy enough to bear transplanting into the native South African mind, through the medium of a Turanian dialect.

He might seek the land of his nativity, and make his four thousand a year, eight thousand. His father’s business, for the moment, lay in Bellefontaine. He did not in the least know where Bellefontaine was, but the name had a civilized sound. And she was going to Switzerland.

Vane must have clenched his hands at this point; for he felt a decided pricking in his left forefinger. And he observed several thorns on the stem of the rose she had given him. For she had given him a rose. That much favor had been shown him. He got into his mother’s little phaeton and drove home—with his rose. So far, his investments in life had not been successful. The account with fortune might read somewhat like this—Debtor, an English girl: to ten years’ love and an indefinite amount of devotion and sentiment. Creditor, by the English girl: one rose (with thorns). That is, if he had put the Dr. and Cr. sides right. He never could remember which was which. At all events, the returns on his investment were not large. And he, with his uncertainty about debtor and creditor, to think of competing with the practical Yankee of Bellefontaine! No; he would leave his four thousand a year where it was—a somewhat insignificant part of the national debt. Meantime, what would become of him? What should he do? He felt an idle outsider’s

curiosity to know what the deuce he would do.

Of one thing he felt certain, his orbit in life would be highly eccentric. He had no raison d’être; and it is difficult to predict the direction taken by a body without raison d’être. The curve of such a comet has no equation. He could no longer view life with gravity; and it is quite impossible to calculate the orbit of a body without gravity. He might bring up anywhere from Orion to the Great Bear. Only one thing was certain—he could not, for the present, bring up in Switzerland; and yet, oddly enough, that seemed to be the only part of any possible terrestrial orbit that had an attraction. But attraction decreases as the square of the distance. Assuming, for the sake of argument, that he was now two miles from her, and loved her with his whole heart; if he were twelve thousand miles away, he would love her only one divided by the square of six thousand—only one thirty-six-millionth part as much. In other words, he would have thirty-five million nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine thirty-six millionths

of his heart left—left to bestow upon the dusky beauties of the Pacific. Damn the dusky beauties of the Pacific. He would see his sister Mary. After all, she was dearer to him than the dusky beauties of the Pacific could possibly be.

When the boy arrived home, he drove to the stable, and alighting, threw the reins to a groom. He was perfectly sure that his life was broken; but a groom is a necessary adjunct of any life at all. He rolled a cigarette and strolled toward the house, still holding the rose, by the stem, between the first and second fingers of his left hand. Momentarily his thoughts had wandered from the English girl; he was still entirely busied in constructing a proper dénouement for himself. The romance of his life, he felt, was gone; but he desired that his career should be consistent with his tragic part in life. She had left him enough self-esteem for that.

So he entered the house.

II.

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.

III.