The disdain of a revenge at hand is accounted the uniquest possible vengeance. And it is quite possible that had Roland's monetary affairs been in a better condition, on a sound and solid basis, let us say, he would willingly have put that paradox into action. But on leaving Tuxedo he happened to be extremely hungry—hungry, first and foremost, for the possession of that wealth which in this admirably conducted country of ours lifts a man above the law, and, an adroit combination of scoundrelism and incompetence aiding, sometimes lands him high among the executives of state. By political ambition, however, it is only just to say he was uninspired. In certain assemblies he had taken the trouble to assert that our government is one at which Abyssinia might sneer, but the rôle of reformer was not one which he had any inclination to attempt. Several of his progenitors figured, and prominently too, in abridgments of history; and, if posterity were not satisfied with that, he had a very clear idea as to what posterity might do. In so far as he was personally concerned, the prominence alluded to was a thing which he accepted as a matter of course: it was an integral part of himself; he would have missed it as he would have missed a leg or the point of his nose; but otherwise it left his pulse unstirred. No, his hunger was not for preferment or place. It was for the ten million which the Hon. Paul Dunellen had gathered together, and which the laws of gravitation would prevent him from carrying away when he died. That was the nature of Roland Mistrial's hunger, and as incidental thereto was the thirst to adjust an outstanding account.
Whatever the nature of that account may have been, in a more ordinary case it might have become outlawed through sheer lapse of time. But during that lapse of time Roland had been in exile because of it; and though even now he might have been willing to let it drift back into the past where it belonged, yet when the representative of it not only loomed between him and the millions, but was even attempting to gather them in for himself, the possibility of retaliation was too complete to suffer disdain. The injury, it is true, was one of his own doing. But, curiously enough, when a man injures another the more wanton that injury is the less it incites to repentance. In certain dispositions it becomes a source of malignant hate. Deserve a man's gratitude, and he may forgive you; but let him do you a wrong, and you have an enemy for life. Such is the human heart—or such at least was Roland Mistrial's.
And now, as the conveyance rumbled off into the night, he shook the snow-flakes from his coat.
"Try, and be damned," he repeated; "I haven't done with you yet."
IV.
To the New Yorker March is the vilest month of all the year. In the South it is usually serene. Mrs. Metuchen, who gave herself the airs of an invalid, and who possessed the invalid's dislike of vile weather, was aware of this; and while the first false promises of February were being protested she succeeded in persuading Miss Dunellen to accompany her out of snow-drifts into the sun. It was Aiken that she chose as refuge; and when the two ladies arrived there they felt satisfied that their choice had been a proper one—a satisfaction which they did not share alone, for a few days after their arrival Roland Mistrial arrived there too.
During the intervening weeks he had seemed idle; but it is the thinker's characteristic to appear unoccupied when he is most busily engaged, and Roland, outwardly inactive, had in reality made the most of his time.
On the morning succeeding the encounter with Thorold something kept coming and whispering that he had undertaken a task which was beyond his strength. To many of us night is apt to be more confident than are the earlier hours of the day, and the courage which Roland had exhibited spent itself and went. It is hard to feel the flutter of a bird beneath one's fingers, and, just when the fingers tighten, to discover that the bird is no longer there. Such a thing is disappointing, and the peculiarity of a disappointment consists in this—the victim of it is apt to question the validity of his own intuitions. Thus far—up to the looming of Thorold—everything had been in Roland's favor. Without appreciable effort he had achieved the impossible. In three days he had run an heiress to earth, gained her father's liking, captivated her chaperon, and, at the moment when the air was sentient with success, the highway on which he strode became suddenly tortuous and obscure. Do what he might he could not discern so much as a sign-post; and as in perplexity he twirled his thumbs, little by little he understood that he must either turn back and hunt another quarry, or stand where he was and wait. Another step on that narrowing road and he might tumble into a gully. Did he keep his word with Thorold he felt sure that Thorold would keep his word with him. But did he break it, and Thorold learn he had done so, several consequences were certain to ensue, and among them he could hear from where he stood the bang with which Mr. Dunellen's door would close. The only plank which drifted his way threatened to break into bits. He needed no one to tell him that Justine was not a girl to receive him or anyone else in the dark; and even fortune favoring, if in chance meetings he were able to fan her spark of interest for him into flame, those chance meetings would be mentioned by her to whomsoever they might concern. No, that plank was rotten; and yet in considering it, and in considering too the possibilities to which, were it a trifle stronger, it might serve as bridge, he passed that morning, a number of subsequent mornings. A month elapsed, and still he eyed that plank.
Meanwhile he had seen Miss Dunellen but once. She happened to be driving up the Avenue, but he had passed her unobserved. Then the weather became abominable, and he knew it was useless to look for her in the Park; and once he had visited her father's office and learned again, what he already knew, that in regard to the lost estate, eternity aiding, something might be recovered, but that the chances were vague as was it. And so February came and found his hunger unappeased. The alternate course which had suggested itself came back, and he determined to turn and hunt another quarry. During his sojourn abroad he had generally managed a team of three. There was the gerundive, as he termed the hindmost—the woman he was about to leave; there was another into whose graces he had entered; and there was a third in training for future use. This custom he had found most serviceable. Whatever might happen in less regulated establishments, his stable was full. And that custom, which had stood him in good stead abroad, had nothing in it to prevent adoption here. Indeed, he told himself it was because of his negligence in that particular that he found himself where he was. Instead of centring his attention on Miss Dunellen, it would have been far better to wander in and out of the glittering precincts of Fifth Avenue, and see what else he could find. After all, there was nothing like being properly provisioned. If one comestible ran short, there should be another to take its place. Moreover, if, as Jones had intimated, there were heiresses enough for export purposes, there must surely be enough to supply the home demand.