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THE CRIME OF

HENRY VANE

A STUDY WITH A MORAL

BY J. S. OF DALE

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1884

BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

Press of J. J. Little & Co.,

Nos. 10 to 20 Astor Place, New York.

THE CRIME OF HENRY 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.

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.

"D?cid?ment, 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.

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.

So he entered the house.

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 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. Fran?ois 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 g?ter tout ?a!" The young man somewhat impatiently shook him off and assured him that he was well. Arriving at the ch?teau, Dr. K?rouec 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 ch?teau 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 ch?teau or even pay the household expenses. He must go to America to see what he could save of his father's estate.

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.

That night Dr. K?rouec 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 with a large red silk handkerchief.

Eighteen thousand francs a year, Vane was thinking; this, at least, he must have, for his mother could not be sent elsewhere. Gold was then at a premium, and this sum meant four thousand a year in America. Just the insignificant fortune he had lost; but could his labor be worth so much? This problem had filled his mind, and kept his temper sane. One who has to earn his bread has little time to sigh for things less possible of attainment. The natural animal motive atones for any want of others; no one is a pessimist who has to work for his living. The young man smiled a little at the thought that he, too, was going to America to seek his fortune--not to improve his future, but to amend what remained of the past. This one obvious, clear duty was before him then. Afterwards, he might see what the world had left for him.

One day about sunset he was sitting on the deck, reading a favorite book of his--an old Florentine edition of Petrarca. As he turned the leaves, a broken rose fell from them. It was a book which they--the English girl and he--had often read together; and, having no Bible , he had thrown her rose hastily between the leaves. He was surprised a little, now, at his own want of sentiment. But those times already seemed so far off! He looked at the flower a moment; then picked it up, and dropped it in the sea. The leaves scattered as it fell, and were soon lost in the broad wake of the steamer.

Vane landed in New York among five hundred other steerage passengers. Of course the papers did not take the trouble to report the coming of so insignificant a person; nor did he call upon any of his social acquaintances. His first visit was to his father's grave; then he went to see, at their down-town offices, such of his father's business friends and correspondents as he knew by name. He had written Mr. Peyton--the one from whom the news had come--to suspend all decisive steps until he came. Mr. Peyton--as indeed were all who had known his father--was very kind; and told him the first thing to do was to get appointed administrator of his father's estate. This being done, he called a meeting of his father's creditors. Mr. Peyton had advised him to offer a settlement of sixty cents on the dollar; but he did not accept this suggestion. He told the creditors of Mr. Peyton's advice, and added that he could probably pay at least seventy cents. But, he continued, his desire was to pay in full. His only hope of so doing was to be allowed to hold his father's investments for a time, manage them judiciously, and avoid forced sales. Would they give him three years?

They were few in number, all capitalists, and co-operators with his father; and they were pleased with something in the young man's manner. All except one could easily spare the money; and to him Vane, with the consent of the other creditors, gave his dividend of seventy per cent., and received his acquittances in full. And that night the other creditors, at a directors' dinner, agreed that, while they had done a very foolish thing, they were anxious to see what young Vane would make of it.

Young Vane took two small rooms in the oldest house of a down-town street, for which he paid two dollars a week. And that autumn, Vane, who a few months before had barely admitted that the name Bellefontaine had a civilized sound, might have been seen riding on the cow-catcher of a locomotive in Northern Wisconsin, and estimating the probable earnings from freight when the forests about him were cut. When he got his father's affairs into such shape that they could be managed from New York, he procured a clerkship in a banking-house in that city at six hundred dollars salary. And then for a year, his life was monotonous routine without a day's rest. He rose at seven, prepared his own breakfast of bread and fruit, and was at the bank before nine. He lunched on a sandwich; left the bank at five, and walked to the Park and back. At seven he dined on a steak and a pint of ale. And such of his evenings as were not occupied with the care of his father's estate, this practical young man of business gave, not to newspapers and stock reports, but to mediaeval history and Italian poetry. It was his safety valve. He sometimes thought of writing a book on the social and political history of the Florentine republic. He steadily refused all invitations of his capitalist friends to dinner or other entertainments. He could now live with two suits of clothes, and, to accept their invitations, he would need three; moreover, he secretly feared that he could not bear his present mode of life if he had even a glimpse of any other. Only while alone could he forget that he was alone in the world. John, who was in the same banking-house, was the only man he knew; and many an evening John left a dinner, or was late at a party, that he might sit for an hour in the little back room in Washington Place.

At the end of the first year Vane took a week's vacation, walking in the Catskills. Every week he had a letter from Rennes; and frequently one from Dr. K?rouec, telling him of no change in his mother's condition. When he returned from his vacation, he was called into the counting-room of the senior partner, and given a check for four hundred dollars in addition to his first year's salary of six hundred; and, moreover, was promoted to a position of three thousand a year salary. That first year, Vane had spent three hundred and eighty dollars in board and lodging, and eighty more in pocket money. He had bought no clothing, having brought all he needed from France. His travelling expenses had been large, but these he had charged to the account of his father's estate. This left him five hundred and forty dollars to the good.

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