The Imitator: A Novel

by Percival Pollard

  CHAPTER VIII.

  The time that had passed since he began the experiment with theProfessor's mirror now filled Vane with horror. The life that had seemedso splendid, so triumphant to him a short while ago, now presenteditself to him as despicable, mean, hateful. Now that he had safelyousted the soul of Reginald Hart he loathed the things that, under thedominance of that soul, he had done. The quick feeling of success thathe had expected from his adventure into the realm of the mind was nothis at all; his emotions were mixed, and in that mixture hatred ofhimself was uppermost. It was true: he had succeeded. The thoughts, thedeeds of another man had become his thoughts, his deeds. The entirepoint of view had been, for the time, changed. But, where he hadexpected to keep the outland spirit in subjection, it was the reversethat had happened; the usurping soul had been in positive dominance; hehad been carried along relentlessly by the desires and the reflectionsof that other.

  The fact that he knew, now, to the very letter, the mind that animatedthat fellow, Reginald Hart, was small consolation to him. The odium ofthat reputation was inescapably his, Orson Vane's. Oh, the things he hadsaid,--and thought,--and done! He had not expected that any man's mindcould be so horrible as that. He thought of the visitation he hadconjured upon himself, and so thinking, shuddered. How was he ever toelude the contempt that his masquerade, if he could call it so, wouldbring him?

  Above all, that scene with Miss Vanlief came back to him with a bitterpang. What did it profit him, now, to fathom the foul depths of ReginaldHart's mind concerning any ever so girlish creature? It was he, OrsonVane, for all that it was possible to explain to the contrary, who hadphrased Miss Vanlief's beauty in such abominable terms.

  Consternation sat on his face like a cloud. He could think of no way outof the dark alley into which he had put himself.

  Each public appearance of his now had its tortures. Men who hadrespected him now avoided him; women to whom he had once condescendedwere now on an aggravating plane of intimacy. Sometimes he could almostfeel himself being pointed out on the street.

  The mental and physical reaction was beginning to trace itself on hisface. He feared his Florentine mirrors now almost as much as theProfessor's. The blithe poise had left him. He brooded a good deal. Hisinsight into another nature than his own filled him with a sense ofdistaste for the human trend toward evil.

  He spent some weeks away from town, merely to pick up his health again.His strength returned a little, but the joy of life came back buttardily.

  On his first day in town he met Moncreith. There was an ominous wrinklegathering in the other's forehead, but Vane braved all chance of arebuff.

  "Luke," he said, "don't you know I've been ill? You can't think how illI've been. Do you remember I told you I was going abroad? I've beenabroad, mentally; I have, Luke, really I have. It's like a bad dream tome. You know what I mean."

  Moncreith found his friend rather pathetic. At their last meeting he hadbeen hot in jealousy of Orson. Now he could afford to pity him. He hadmade Jeannette Vanlief's acquaintance, and he stood quite well with her.He had made up his mind to stand yet better; he was, in fact, in lovewith her. He was quite sure that Vane had quite put himself out of thatrace. So he took the other's hand, and walked amicably to the Town andCountry Club with him.

  "You have been doing strange things," he ventured.

  "Strange," echoed Vane, "strange isn't the word! Ghastly,horrible--awful things I've been doing. I wish I could explain. Butit--it isn't my secret, Luke. All I can say is: I was ill. I am, I hope,quite well again."

  It seemed an age since he had spent an hour or so in his favorite club.The air of the members was unmistakably frosty. The conversation shrankaudibly. He was glad when Moncreith found a secluded corner and bore himto it. But he was not a bright companion; his own thoughts were toodepressing to allow of his presenting a sparkling surface to the world.They talked in mere snatches, in curt syllables.

  "I've seen a good deal of Miss Vanlief," said Moncreith, with conscioustriumph.

  "Oh," said Vane, with a start, "Miss Vanlief? So you know her? Isshe--is she well?"

  "Quite. I see her almost every day."

  "Fortunate man!" sighed Vane. He was a little weary of life. He wantedto tell somebody what his dreams about Miss Vanlief were; he wanted tocry out loud, "She is the dearest, sweetest girl in the world!" merelyto efface, in his own mind, the alien thought of her that had come tohim weeks ago. Moncreith did not seem the one to utter this cry to.Moncreith was too engrossed in his own success. He could bearMoncreith's company no longer, not just then. He muttered lame words; hestumbled out to the avenue.

  Some echo of an instinct turned his steps to the little bookshop.

  It was quite empty of customers. He passed his fingers over the back ofbooks that he thought Miss Vanlief might have handled. It was an absurdwhim, a childish trick. Yet it soothed him perceptibly. Our nervescontrol our bodies and our nerves are slaves of our imaginations.

  He was turning to go, when his eye fell on a parcel lying on thecounter. It was addressed to "Miss Jeannette Vanlief."

  "Jeannette, Jeannette!" he said the name over to himself time and again.It brought the image of her before him more plainly than ever. Thesunset glint in her hair, the roses and lilies of her skin, the melodyin her voice! The charm with which she had first met him, in that veryshop. It all came to him keenly. The more remote the possibility of hisgaining her seemed, the more he hugged the thought of her. He admittedto himself now, all the more since his excursion into an abominable sideof human nature, that she was the most unspoilt creature in his world. Agirl with that face, that hair, that wit, was sure to be of a charm thatcould never lose its flavor; the allurement of her was a thing thatcould never die.

  Nothing but thoughts of this girl came to him on the way to his rooms.Once in his own place, he felt that his reflections on Miss Vanlief hadserved him as a tonic. He felt an energy once more, a vigor, a desirefor action. In that mood he turned fiercely upon some of the drawings onhis walls. He called Nevins, and had a heap made of the things that nowfilled him with loathing.

  "All of the Beardsleys must come down," he ordered. "No; not all. Theportrait of Mantegna may stay. That has nobility; the others have thegenius of hidden evil. They take too much of the trapping from ourhorrible human nature. The funeral procession by Willette may hang; hisMontmartre things are trivially indecent. Heine and his grotesqueriesmay stay in jail for all I care. Leave one or two of Thoeny's bluedragoons. Leandre's crowned heads will do me no harm; I can see pasttheir cruelties. But take the Gibsons away; they are relegated to thematinee girl. What is to be done with them? Really, Nevins, don't worryme about such things. Sell them, give them, lose them: I don't care.There's only one man in the world who'd really adore them, and he--" heclenched his hands as he thought of Hart,--"he is a worm, a worm thatdieth and yet corrupts everything about him."

  He sat down, when this clearance was over, and wrote a rather longletter to Professor Vanlief. He told as much as he could bring himselfto tell of the result of the experiment. He begged the Professor,knowing the circumstances as no other did, to do what was possible toreinstate him, Vane, in the esteem of Miss Vanlief. As to whether hemeant to go on with further experiments; he had not yet made up hismind. There were consequences, obligations, following on this clearreading of other men's souls, that he had not counted upon.