The Transgression of Andrew Vane: A Novel

by Guy Wetmore Carryl

  CHAPTER XII.

  REACTION.

  Noon of the following day found Andrew once more in the Rue Boissiere.He had not seen Margery from the moment when he had left her in thearbour. She had come in while the men were playing billiards, and gonedirectly to her room, pleading a headache, an excuse which was also madeto cover her non-appearance in the morning. The two hours immediatelyfollowing breakfast passed laboriously, the whole party hanging togetherwith that kind of helpless attraction which characterizes the bubbles ina cup of tea. There was a general sense of relief when the big Panhardpurred up the driveway, and Andrew, Radwalader, and Kennedy whirled offin it to Paris. Monsieur and Madame Palffy and the Listers were tofollow almost immediately by train, and Mrs. Carnby was talking acontinuous stream of the most unmitigated gossip.

  "If I had stopped to think that in an hour they would all be gone," shetold Jeremy, that night, "I would first have screamed the GeneralThanksgiving at the top of my lungs, and then had the vapours--whateverthey may be!"

  It was something the same feeling which had prompted Radwalader toremark, as they rolled away from the villa:

  "I wonder if General Sherman had ever been to a house-party with theListers when he made that remark about war."

  Then, as Andrew made no reply, he relapsed into silence. He possessedthat most precious gift of the Gods--the knowledge of when not to talk.

  But it was when Andrew was once more alone in his familiar quarters, andhad flung himself moodily into a chair, that the full force of hissituation returned upon him. In twelve hours the whole world hadchanged. He realized for the first time that, as a matter of fact, therehad never been in his mind the shadow of a doubt that the way lay clearbefore him, that the attainment of his wishes had been, in hiscalculations, no more than a matter of time. He had relied uponMargery's constancy like a mariner upon that of the North Star, and itwas as if that luminary had suddenly flung away from him into some newand wholly unfamiliar constellation. The man who offers his hand infriendship and is stabbed in reply is not more aghast than was he. Hewas bitterly hurt, bitterly resentful. He had taken Mrs. Carnby'sreprimand as something to which, if it was not wholly deserved, he hadat least laid himself open: but that was a very different matter fromthe scornful and passionate rebuff which he had received from Margeryherself. The first had almost afforded him a sense of relief. Like achild who is conscious of some slight transgression, the rebuke hadseemed to set things square, to wipe out his fault, and give himabsolution and a chance for a fresh start. But what followed, so whollyout of proportion to his knowledge of the truth, left him only consciousof a monstrous and unpardonable injustice. Complete innocence is neverso jealous or so resentful as is the half-innocence in which lurks ahint of self-accusation, a suspicion of actual guilt. He had stoodready, with a kind of fierce and proud submission, to accept such blameas could be rightly laid at his door, but this very attitude of partialcontrition flamed into anger the moment the scale was tipped too far inhis disfavour. He did not see that the main factor in his revolt was thesame as that in his acceptance of Mrs. Carnby's words--a sense ofdisloyalty, that is, to what he knew in his heart to be the true andmanly course. He was very young, and moreover he had fallen, to at leastan appreciable extent, from the high estate of his best ideals.Conscience impelled him to accept with humility as much of censure as heconceived that he deserved, but the savage pride of youth commanded himnot to yield a single foot of ground beyond that which, by his folly, hehad forfeited. He had been wrong; that he was willing to acknowledge:but his punishment had fallen too suddenly and too hard. Other men haddone worse--infinitely worse--and had prospered. As for him, it wasalready too late to turn back. He was learning, albeit rebelliously,that standards of conduct are the boomerangs of the moral armament. Theexpert may juggle with them with comparative security; but the novicewho recklessly flings them into space and then seeks to resume his holdupon them is apt to suffer a rude blow in the attempt. _Facilisdescensus_--but the way of retreat is choked with briers and strewn withboulders, and never wholly retraceable.

  Essentially, Andrew Vane was very clean, with an instinctive revulsionfrom whatever savoured of animalism or sensuality. Among a certain classof men at Harvard he had been called, for a time, "Galahad" Vane; withthat impulse to sneer which is irrepressible in those who resent whatthey find themselves forced to respect. There was something peculiarlyappropriate, however, about the name thus bestowed in ridicule: for thatfine sense of nicety which is a safeguard more sure than abstractprinciple had held him instinctively aloof from whatever was simplysordid or unclean. Temptation of the baser sort, which left its furrowson the sand of natures less refined, washed harmlessly over the sturdyrock of his self-respect. The illicit was inseparably associated in hismind with vulgarity. To seek a pleasure which necessitated keeping oneeye on the police and the other on one's purse smote him, even insuggestion, with a sickening sense of degradation. He passed by, withthe sniff of a thoroughbred terrier, the carrion in which his fellowsrolled.

  But it was to this very fastidiousness that Mirabelle had appealed: andbecause she so fully satisfied it he at first misunderstood thesituation utterly. It came to him clothed in a refinement, a daintiness,an atmosphere of soft lights and flowers and _savoir faire et vivre_which spoke eloquently to all that was sensuous in his nature, andstirred nothing of what was merely sensual. That was the French of it.The national deftness which is able to make plain women beautiful, andordinary viands delicacies, finds its parallel in the national abilityto smother the first approach of impropriety in disguises infinitelyvaried. And Mirabelle herself was more than content not to urge theissue. For the first time in her experience, she was unable to scent anulterior motive in a man's admiration. She appreciated the simplicity ofAndrew's attitude, without fully comprehending its significance. Back ofit, no doubt, lay the as yet undeveloped progressions in a routine alltoo familiar: but she was grateful for the respite.

  But a chance word, now and again, had stirred of late the serenity oftheir curious relation. He put away the thought which forced itself uponhim, but it returned invariably, and each time with a suggestion of moreeloquent appeal. The subtle influence of Paris, which undermines thebulwarks of principle and prejudice by insensible degrees, was at work.Daily he heard the things which he had instinctively avoided treated asinevitable and by no means unjustified accessories of life; daily theinsinuating tooth of epigrammatic banter gnawed at the stability of hisformer convictions; while the very offences which had always repelledhim by their sordid vulgarity were now accomplished all about him,light-heartedly, to the clink of crystal glasses, the soft pulse ofwaltz music, the ripple of laughter, and the ring of gold. All that ismost lavish and most ingenious in the imaginative power and theexecutive ability of man had been laid under contribution to produce theeffect which now enthralled his senses. None of the ordinaryrestrictions and limitations of life raised a finger to check this paganprodigality of license. Economy, responsibility, and every more seriousconsideration stood aside from the path of sovereign pleasure. The worldhad given of its best with a lavish hand, for here was not only the goldto pay for, but the wit to appreciate, perfection. The labels on thesecobweb-covered vintages, the dishes they enhanced, the flowers theyrivalled in perfume, the music, the lights, the laughter, all spoke onelanguage--a language forgetful of the past, heedless of the future, buteloquent as the tongue of Circe of the present joy of living. These menand women were civilization's latest work--the best, in the sense ofultra-elaboration, that the experience of the ages had enabled her toaccomplish. They had been prodigally dowered with the extremes ofsensuous refinement; they were clothed, fed, housed, and diverted bythe ultimate attainments of human invention and skill; they demandedthat life should be a festival, and every detail of existence the childof a most cunning imagination and a consummate faculty of execution: andthis was the spot where was given them what they asked. The goddess ofluxury, in whose ears their prayers were poured, and at whose feet theirgold was piled,
could do no more. They had climbed the capstone of herpyramid, her sun had touched its zenith, and her last word was said!

  So, as Andrew considered his present state, he was aware of the force ofRadwalader's remark that in Paris a man had something for which, insteadof merely something on which, to live. Life took on a new aspect. InBoston it had been wholesome, monotonous, gray, silver, and brown: inParis it was heady, infinitely varied, gold, purple, and rose-pink. Inanother of his fanciful moods, Radwalader had described it as asapiently ordered dinner: and this, too, now that his eyes were opened,Andrew understood. There were the soups and solid courses--thearchitecture, history, and artistic associations of the great city:there were, by way of whetting the appetite, the clean little _horsd'oeuvres_, radishes, anchovies, and olives--the tea-tables of theColony, the theatres, the talks with Mrs. Carnby and the women of herset: but there were, as well, the wines and _sauces piquantes_--theraces, the restaurants at midnight, the Allee at noon, and MirabelleTremonceau! The beauty and luxury of it all continually charmed hissenses; the fever of it stirred hotly in his blood.

  Lately, he had been conscious of noticing things about Mirabelle whichhad never been part of his analysis of another woman. To him, with oneexception, a girl had been a face or a form, to be associated with, orbrought back to memory by, a snatch of waltz-music, a perfume, or aparticular effect of moonlight on water, or sunlight upon foliage.Margery Palffy was the exception, but it was not she who had taught himthe faculty of observation which, of late, he had applied to her. Notfrom her had he learned to remark details--how the skin crinkled alongher nose before a laugh came and after it had gone, how her chin cut inunder sharply, and then swelled softly again before it met her throat.Now, for the first time, he was conscious that a woman is never whollysilent--that a whisper of lace or a lisp of silk speaks the movementthat is unapparent to the eye. Already he had found that her frown canbe mirth-provoking, and her smile of a sadness beyond description.Already he was become weatherwise in his understanding of the ripples ofexpression blown by the shifting winds of inner thought across her eyes.He knew when she was bored, by the barely perceptible compression of herlower lip, which told of a skilfully smothered yawn; when she wassecretly amused, by the little curving line which showed for an instanton either cheek; when she was troubled or puzzled, by the tiniestcontraction of her eyebrows. In his recollection dwelt such trifles asthe nicking of a full instep by the edge of a slipper, the falling awayof lace from a lifted wrist, the sudden swell of rounded muscles beneaththe ear when the head is turned aside, and the imprint of pointed nailsand the jewels of rings on the fingers of a discarded glove. If he hadremembered the noses, eyes, and mouths of other women, his memory nowcaressed the veins in her wrists, the little wisps of hair low in herneck, the interlinking of her long lashes, the shadow from chin to ear,and the silvering touch of sunlight on the down of her averted cheek.Such things had his study of her taught him. Trifles, all! Yet does aman ever forget that woman, through his intimacy with whom theseperceptions were first born, like golden threads newly discovered in thewarp and woof of some familiar fabric? And that woman was MirabelleTremonceau.

  So it was this--all this--Paris, and her luxury, charm, and infinite,bewildering appeal--with which he had merely toyed, because, at the backof his appreciation, lay ever the thought of what Margery Palffy meantto him, and what he had come to ask of her! What had been his reward?Because he had been neither one thing nor the other he was treated asthe outcast he had not dared to be. He had no more than fingered thenettle, instead of grasping it boldly, like a man, and so--it had stung!He had relied, throughout, upon something which did not exist--theloyalty of those for whose sake he had striven to keep himself, in allessentials, clean. When he came to them, prepared to admit his littlefollies, they had slammed the gate of injustice in his face!

  Of a sudden, the scene in the garden at Poissy leaped back at him, andhe rose and began to pace the room. They trusted hearsay, did they? Theygossiped about him, each to each, among themselves? They cast him off,as he had been a pariah, without a chance to justify himself, to givethem the explanation which he had been ready to offer, but theyunprepared to believe? Well, then, they should have their fill! He hadtried to enter what he supposed was a friendly port, and had beentorpedoed, raked fore and aft at the very haven's mouth, and sent abouthis business like the veriest privateer. But there _were_ friendlyharbours! There was still Radwalader--his friend! There was stillMirabelle! How ready they were to believe her guilty, between whom andhimself there existed nothing but a friendship wholly pure!

  Now, the curious chivalry of youth had him firmly in its grasp--thecurious, unreasoning, treacherous chivalry which has not learned todiscriminate as yet, but which cloaks its own essential selfishness in afierce allegiance to the thing of the moment, blind to all largerissues, lance in rest to tilt at windmills, hotly insistent upon theimmaterial present, scornful of the future, contemptuous of the past.This girl at whom they were all so eager to cast a stone, this girl whowas his friend, and whose only friend he seemed to be--was it not to herthat he owed his utmost loyalty, rather than to her who had so readilyrejected him upon no better pretence than that of hearsay? Becauseothers refused to grant him the confidence in his integrity which theyfully owed him, was that any reason for his proving uncharitable,too?--for siding against Mirabelle and with them?

  Andrew clenched his fingers savagely.

  "She is my friend!" he said aloud, "my friend! As for the rest, if theywant proof of my depravity, by the Lord they shall have it to the full!"

  The Tempter was very near now, glorying in the preliminary moves ofVanity, his stanch ally.

  The bell whirred sharply, as Andrew paced the _salon_ to and fro, and, amoment later, his servant tapped and entered.

  "Well, Jules?"

  "_Une dame, monsieur_," announced Vicot suavely, and then--Andrew foundher hand in his. There was a suggestion of challenge in her eyes as shelifted them to his, and, before she spoke, her eyebrows went upquestioningly and her even white teeth nicked her lower lip.

  "You're not angry?"

  "Angry?" said Andrew. "Why should I be? I'm surprised, perhaps: I wasn'texpecting you. But angry?--no, certainly not. I'm very pleased."

  But, for the moment, there was no conviction in his tone. Her comingsmote him with a vague uneasiness. It was something new, this--somethingfor which he found himself wholly unprepared. He seemed to divine that asignificant development was imminent, and that, in some sense not fullyclear, his threshold was a Rubicon--which she had crossed!

  In the _antichambre_ Monsieur Vicot was scribbling his master's name andhis own initials in the receipt-book of a little, domino-shapedmessenger-boy. Then, as young Mercury went whistling down the stairs, heturned the blue missive over and over in his fingers.

  "I'll be damned if Radwalader sees it!" he ejaculated, and thrust it inhis pocket, where, for a vitally important period, itremained--forgotten!