The Imitator: A Novel

by Percival Pollard

  CHAPTER XI.

  It was a morning such as the wild flowers, out in the suburban meadows,must have thought fit for a birthday party. As for the town, it lost,under that keen air and gentle sun, whatever of garish and unhealthyglamour it had displayed the night before.

  "The morning," Orson Vane had once declared, in a moment of revelation,"is God's, and the night is man's." He was speaking, of course, of thetown. In the severe selectiveness that had grown upon him after muchrout and riot through other lands, he pretended that the town was theonly spot on the map. Certainly this particular morning seemed to bearout something of this saying; it swept away the smoke and the taint, thefever and the flush of the night before; the visions of limelights andglittering crystals and enmillioned vice fled before the gust of ozonethat came pouring into the streets. Before night, to be sure, man wouldhave asserted himself once more; the pomp and pageant of the primrosepath would have ousted, with its artificial charm, the clean, sweetfreshness of the morning.

  The grim houses on upper Fifth avenue put on semblance of lifereluctantly that morning. Houses take on the air of their inmates; thesehouses wore their best manner only under artificial lights. Surly groomsand housemaids went muttering and stumbling about the areas. Sad-facedwheelmen flashed over the asphalt, cursing the sprinkling carts. It wasnot too early for the time-honored preoccupation of the butcher cart,which consists of turning corners as if the world's end was coming.Pallid clubmen strode furtively in the growing sunshine. To them, as tothe whole town, the sun and its friend, the breeze, came as a tonic anda cure.

  So strange a thing is the soul of man that Orson Vane, riding towardsthe Park that morning, caught only vague, fleeting impressions of theactual beauty of the day. He simply wondered, every foot of the way toMcGowan's Pass, whether Miss Vanlief played golf. The first thing hesaid to her after they had exchanged greetings, was:

  "Of course you golf?"

  She looked at him in alarm. There was something--something, but what wasit?--in his voice, in his eye. She had expected a reference to the daybefore, to their infantile escapade on the roof of the coach. Instead,this banale, this stupid, this stereotyped phrase! Her flowerlike faceclouded; she gave her mare the whip.

  "No," she called out, "I cannot bear the game." His horse caught thepace with difficulty; the groom was left far out of sight, beyond acorner. But the diversion had not touched Vane's trend of thought atall.

  "Oh," he assured her, when the horses were at an amble again, "it's oneof those things one has to do. Some things have to be done, you know;society won't stand for anything less, you know, oh, no. I have to playgolf, you know; part of my reputation."

  "I didn't know," she faltered. She tried to remember when Orson Vane hadever been seen on either the expert or the duffer list at the golfmatches.

  "Oh, yes; people expect it of me. If I don't play I have to arrangetournaments. Handicapping is great fun; ever try it? No? You should.Makes one feel quite like a judge at sessions. Oh, there's nothing likegolf. Not this year, at least. Next year it may be something else. I mayhave to take to polo or tennis. One is expected to show the way, youknow; a man in my position--" He looked at her with a kind of 'bland,blunt, clumsy egoism, that made her wonder where was the Orson Vane ofyesterday. This riddle began to sadden her. Perhaps it was true, as shehad heard somewhere, that the man was mentally unbalanced; that he hadhis--well, his bad days. She sighed. She had looked forward to this ridein the Park; she admitted that to herself. Not in a whole afternoonspent with Luke Moncreith had she felt such happy childishness stirringin her as yesterday, in the hour with Orson Vane. And now--She sighed.

  The hum of an approaching automobile reached them, the glitteringvehicle proclaiming its progress in that purring stage whisper that isstill the inalienable right of even the newest "bubble" machine. Thecoat worn by the smart young person on the seat would have shocked theunenlightened, for that sparkling, tingling morning it struck the exactharmonious note of artifice.

  Orson Vane bowed. It was "the" Miss Carlos. Just as there is only oneMrs. Carlos, so there is only one Miss Carlos.

  "She plays a decent game," said Vane to his companion.

  "Of life?"

  "No; golf." He looked at her in amazement. Life! What was life comparedto golf? Life? For most people it was, at best, a foozle. Nearlyeverybody pressed; very few followed through, and the bunkers--goodLord, the bunkers!

  "I'm thinking of writing a golfing novel," began Orson, after aninterval in which he managed to wonder whether one couldn't play golffrom horseback.

  "Oh," said Miss Vanlief wearily, "how does one set about it!"

  He was quite unaware of her weariness. He chirped his answer with blindenthusiasm.

  "It's very easy," he declared. "There are always a lot of women, youknow, who are aching to do things in that line. You give them theprestige of your name, that's all. One of them writes the thing; yousimply keep them from foozling the phrases now and then. Anotherillustrates it."

  "And does anyone buy it?"

  "Oh, all the smart people do. It's one of those things one is supposedto do. There's no particular reason or sense in it; but smart peopleexpect one another to read things like that. The newspapers get quitesilly over such books. Then, after novels, I think, I shall take tohaving them done over for the stage? Don't you think a golfing comedy,with a sprinkling of profanity and Scotch whiskey, would be all therage?"

  Jeannette Vanlief reined in her mare. She looked at Orson Vane; lookedhim, as much as she could, through and through. Was it all a stupidjest? She could find nothing but dense earnestness in her face, in hiseyes. Oh, the riddle was too tiresome, too hopeless. It was simply notthe same man at all! She gave it up, gave him up.

  "Do you mind," she said, "if I ride home now? I'm tired."

  It should have been a blow in the face, but Orson Vane never so much asnoticed it.

  "Tired?" he repeated. "Oh; all right. We'll turn about. Rather go backalone? Oh, all right. Wish you'd learn to play golf; you really must!"And upon that he let her canter away, the groom following, some littlewonder on his impassive front.

  As for Jeannette Vanlief she burst into her father's room a littlelater, and then into tears.

  "And I wanted to love him!" she wailed presently, from out her confusionand her distress.

  The Professor was patting her hair, and wondering what in all the worldwas the matter. At her speech, he thought he saw a light.

  "And why not?" he asked, soothingly, "He seems quite estimable. He washere only a moment ago?"

  "Who was here?" she asked in bewilderment.

  "Mr. Moncreith."

  At that she laughed. The storm was over, the sunshine peeped out again.

  "You dear, blind comfort, you!" she said, "What do I care if a thousandMoncreiths--"

  "Then it's Orson Vane," said the Professor, not so blind after all."Well, dear, and what has he been doing now?"

  He listened to her rather rambling, rather spasmodic recital; listenedand grew moody, though he could scarce keep away some little mirth. Hesaw through these masquerades, of course. Who else, if not he? PoorJeannette! So she had set her happy little heart upon that young man? Ayoung man who, to serve both their ends, was playing chameleon. A youngman who was mining greater secrets from the deeps of the human soul thanhad ever been mined before. A wonderful young man, but--would that makefor Jeannette's happiness? At any rate he, the Professor, would have tokeep an eye open for Vane's doings. There was no knowing what strangeways these borrowed souls might lead to. He wondered who it was that,this time, had been rifled of his soul.

  Wonder did not long remain the adjuncts of the Professor and hisdaughter only. The whole world of society began to wonder, as time wenton, at the new activities of Orson Vane. Wonder ceased, presently, andthere was passive acceptance of him in his new role. Fashions, afterall, are changed so often in the more external things, that the smartset would not take it as a surprising innovation if some people took tochanging their souls to sui
t the social breeze.

  Orson Vane took a definite place in the world of fashion that season. Hebecame the arbiter of golf; he gave little putting contests for womenand children; he looked after the putting greens of a number of smartclubs with as much care as a woman gives her favorite embroideries. Hetook to the study of the Turkish language. There were rumors that hemeant to become the Minister to Turkey. He traveled a great deal, and hepublished a book called "The Land of the Fez." Another little brochurebearing his name was "The Caddy; His Ailments and Diseases." It wasrumored that he was busy in dramatization of his novel, "Five Loaves andTwo Fishes!" When Storman Pasha made his memorable visit to the Statesit was Orson Vane who became his guide and friend. A jovial club ofnewspaper roysterers poked fun at him by nominating him for Mayor. Hewent through it all with a bland humorlessness and stubborn dignity thatnothing could affront. His indomitable energy, his intense seriousnessabout everything, kept smart society unalterably loyal. He led itscotillions, arranged its more sober functions, and was a household wordwith the outsiders that reach society only through the printed page. Hisnovels--whether they were his own or done for him hardly matters--werejust dull enough to offend nobody. The most indolent dweller in VanityFair could affect his books without the least mental exertion. The livesof our fashionables are too full, too replete with a multitude ofinterests and excitements, to allow of the concentration proper for thereading of scintillating dialogue, or brilliant observations. Orson Vaneappeared to gauge his public admirably; he predominated in the outdoorlife, in golf, in yachting, in coaching, yet he did not allow anyoneelse to dispute the region of the intellect, of indoors, with him. Heshone, with a severe dimness, in both fields.

  Jeannette Vanlief, meanwhile, lost much of the sparkle she had hithertoworn. She drooped perceptibly. The courtship of Luke Moncreith left herlistless; he persevered on the strength of his own ambition rather thanher encouragement. His daughter's looks at last began seriously to worryProfessor Vanlief. Something ought to be done. But what? It wasapparently Orson Vane's intention to keep that borrowed soul with himfor a long time. In the meanwhile Jeannette.... The Professor, the morehe considered the matter, felt the more strongly that just as he was theone who had given Vane this power, so had he the right, if need be, tointerfere. The need was urgent. The masquerade must be put an end to.

  His resolve finally taken, Professor Vanlief paid a visit to OrsonVane's house. Vane was, as he had hoped, not at home. Hecross-questioned Nevins.

  The man was only too willing to admit that his master's actions werequeer. But Mr. Vane had given him warning to that effect; he must havefelt it coming on. It was a malady, no doubt. For his part he thought itwas something that Mr. Vane would wish to cure rather than endure. Hedidn't pretend to understand his master of late, but--

  The Professor put a period to the man's volubility with some effort.

  "I want you," he urged, "to jog your memory a little. Never mind thesymptoms. Give me straightforward answers. Now--did you touch the newmirror, leaving it uncovered, at any time within the past few weeks?"

  "Oh," was the answer, "the new mirror, is it! I knows well the uncannything was sure to make trouble for me. But I gives you my word, as Ihopes to be saved, that I've never so much as brushed the dust off it,much less taken the curtain off. It's fearsome, is that mirror, I'mthinking. It's--"

  "Then think back," pressed the Professor, again stemming the tide of theother's talk relentlessly, "think back: was anyone, ever, at any time,alone in Mr. Vane's rooms? Think, think!"

  "I disremember," stammered Nevins. "I think not--Oh, wait! It was a longtime ago, but I think a gentleman wrote Mr. Vane a note once, and I,having work in the other rooms, let him be undisturbed. But I told themaster about it, the minute he came in, sir. He was not the least vexed,sir. Oh, I'm easy in my mind about that time."

  "Yes, yes,--but the gentleman's name!" The Professor shook the man'sshoulder quite roughly.

  "His name? Oh, it was just Mr. Spalding-Wentworth, sir, that was all."

  The Professor sat down with a laugh. Spalding-Wentworth! He laughedagain.

  Nevins had the air of one aggrieved. "Mr. Vane laughed, too, I remember,when I told him. Just the minute I told him, sir, he laughed. I'vepuzzled over it, time and again, why--"

  The Professor left Nevins puzzling. There was no time to be lost. Heremembered now that Spalding-Wentworth had for some time been ailing.The world, in its devotion to Orson Vane, had forgotten, almost, thatsuch a person as Spalding-Wentworth had ever existed. To be forgottenone has only to disappear. Dead men's shoes are filled nowhere soquickly as in Vanity Fair; though, to be paradoxic, for the most partthey are high-heeled slippers.

  It took some little time, some work, to arrange what the Professor haddecided must be done. He went about his plans with care and skill. Hesuborned Nevins easily enough, using, chiefly, the plain truth. Nevins,with the superstition of his class, was willing to believe far greatermysteries than the Professor half hinted at. By Nevins' aid it happenedthat Orson Vane slept, one night, face to face with the polished surfaceof the new mirror. In the morning it was curtained as usual.

  That morning Augustus Vanlief called at the Wentworth house. He askedfor Mrs. Wentworth. He went to his point at once.

  "You know who I am, I dare say, Mrs. Wentworth. You love your husband, Iam sure; you will pardon my intrusion when I tell you that perhaps I cando something the best thing of all--for him. It is, in its way, amatter of life and death. Do the doctors give you any hope?"

  Mrs. Wentworth, her beauty now tired and touched by traces of spoiltambition, made a listless motion with her hands.

  "I don't know why I should tell you," she said, "or why I should not.They tell me vague things, the doctors do, but I don't believe they knowwhat is the matter."

  "Do you?"

  "I?" she looked at Vanlief, and found a challenge in his regard. "Itseems," she admitted, "as if--I hardly like to say it,--but it seems asif there was no soul in him any more. He is a shell, a husk. The life inhim seems purely muscular. It is very depressing. Why do you think youcan do anything for Clarence, Professor? I did not know your researchestook you into medicine?"

  "Ah, but you admit this is not a matter for medicine, but for the mind.Will you allow me an experiment madame? I give you my word of honor, myhonor and my reputation, that there is no risk, and there maybe--perhaps, an entire restoration. There is--a certain operation that Iwish to try--"

  "An operation? The most eminent doctors have told me such a thing wouldbe useless. We might as well leave my poor husband clear of the knife,Professor."

  "Oh, it is no operation, in that sense. Nothing surgical. I can hardlyexplain; professional secrets are involved. If you did not know that Iam but a plodding old man of science--if I were an unknown charlatan--Iwould not ask you to put faith in me. But--I give you my word, mypromise, that if you will let Mr. Wentworth come with me in my broughamI will return with him within the hour. He will be either as he is now,or--as he once was."

  "As he once was--!" Mrs. Wentworth repeated the phrase, and the thoughtbrought her a keen moment of anguish that left a visible impress on herfeatures. "Ah," she sighed, "if I could only think such a thingpossible!" She brooded in silence a moment or two. Then she spoke.

  "Very well. You will find him in the library. Prim, show the gentlemanto the library. If you can persuade him, Professor--" She smiledbitterly. "But then, anybody can persuade him nowadays." She turned tosome embroidery as if to dismiss the subject, to show that she wasresigned even to hopeless experiments. The very fact that she was plyingthe needle rather than the social sceptre was gauge of her descent fromthe heights. As a matter of fact Vanlief found Wentworth amenableenough. Wentworth was reading Marie Corelli. His mind was as empty asthat. Nothing could better define his utter lapse from intelligence. Heput the book down reluctantly as the Professor came in. He listenedwithout much enthusiasm. A drive? Why not? He hadn't driven much oflate, but if it was something that would please the Professor.
Heremembered, through a mist, that he had known Vanlief when he himselfwas a boy; his father had often spoken of Vanlief with respect. Nothingfurther in the way of mental exertion came to him. He followed Vanliefas a dog follows whoso speaks kindly to it.

  The conversation between the two, in the brougham, would hardly tend tothe general entertainment. It was a thing of shreds and patches. It lednowhither.

  The brougham stopped at the door of Orson Vane's house. Nevins let themin, whispering an assuring confidence to the professor. As they reachedthe door of the dressing-room Vanlief pushed Wentworth ahead of him, andbade him enter. He kept behind him, letting the other's body screen himfrom the staring mirror.

  Wentworth looked at himself. A hand traveled slowly up to his forehead.

  "By Jove!" he said, hesitatingly, "I never put the curtain back, afterall." And he covered up the mirror. "Curious thing," he went on, withenergy vitalizing each word, "what possessed me to come here just now,when I know for a fact that they're playing the Inter-State Golfchampionships to-day. Dashed if I know why I didn't go!" He walked out,plainly puzzled, clumsily heedless of Vanlief and Nevins, but--himselfonce more.

  Orson Vane, at just that time, was on the links of the Fifeshire GolfClub. He was wearing a little red coat with yellow facings. He was inthe act of stooping on a green, to look along the line of his putt, whenhe got to his feet in a hurried, bewildered way. He threw his putterdown on the green. He blushed all over, shaming the tint of his scarletcoat.

  "What a foolish game for a grown-up man!" he blurted out, and strode offthe grounds.

  The bystanders were aghast. They could not find words. Orson Vane, thevery prophet of golf, to throw it over in that fashion! It wasinexplicable! The episode was simply maddening.

  But it was remarked that the decline of golf on this side of the waterdated from that very day.