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.