Thus, thanks to Miss Thomas and a little sight of the lighter rim of life, Vane passed a winter which, if not happy, was at least less bitter than he had known for years. In the natural course of events, society pronounced him attentive to Miss Thomas; but Vane cared little for that. His character was not of the mould which cares what the world says. He did not believe that her life was very happy, either; and he thought they were both the better for their friendship. The more he saw of her, the less he doubted that she had at one time cared for some one, Ten Eyck or another; though, of course, for him she would never care again. After all, she was his superior; she had kept her sweet self above her sorrow, he had not. How he had misinterpreted her that first evening! Now he saw she was a woman, in all the glory of her womanhood, strong, gentle, and true.
Vane went back to Brittany in the June of the summer following. One of his last calls was upon Miss Thomas, and she chided him with not making it the very last. However, the call lasted three hours. Twenty times Vane rose to go, and each time was detained by some pretext or another of Miss Thomas. There is a sweet pleading manner of urging a wish, even a selfish one, that makes you feel as if you were doing yourself a favor in gratifying it. Miss Thomas had this manner, which few men, particularly strong men, can resist. Vane always yielded. He would as soon have thought of putting a pet canary through the manual of arms as of resisting it. In this way Vane’s visit was prolonged, and when he went home he admitted to himself that it had been a very charming one. He thought she was a lovely woman, and wished some nice fellow would marry her. What a gentle, sunny nature she had! And what a lovely type of the best American women, so different both from the French and English, so natural, so pure, and yet so bright and charming. “At least,” thought Vane, “if I ever go back to France to live I shall have seen some things wholly worthy of admiration in my own country.” He was sorry if she really cared (as she had seemed to) that he had called upon her two days before his departure. She had been very kind to him that winter, and it certainly would have been more empressé to have called upon her last. Vane stopped on his way to Jersey City the morning of the steamer’s sailing, and procured a superb mass of roses. These he sent to Miss Thomas with his card: “From her sincere friend.” It was the last thing he did in America.
VII.
VANE stayed with old Dr. Kérouec in Rennes, and found the good physician kinder than ever. He always called Vane “my son” now, and he had to submit to numerous embraces, a proceeding he did not like, for in his manners Vane had that clumsiness in expressing anything emotional, that Gothic phlegm, about which Saxons grow vainglorious, and for which Celts detest them.
Every day Vane walked in the garden with his mother—a painful duty, for she never remembered him. Her dementia was quite harmless now, and she sometimes spoke to Vane of himself, not knowing him, but never mentioned his father. Curiously enough her talk was much of Mary, and of the English girl who had been the object of his boyish affections. Vane heard casually of her marriage that summer, and was more surprised than pleased to find how little the news affected him.
Once in a while, however, he caught himself wondering what Miss Thomas was doing; and a week after his arrival he received a note from her to thank him for the flowers he had sent. She also said that they were at some place in Pennsylvania for the summer, far from the madding crowd, but she found the place very stupid and the people inane. There was nothing to do there. The men were all young Philadelphians, she wrote, and generally uninteresting. Vane was glad to get the note, and of course never thought of replying.
At this time Vane was a handsome, erect fellow, with a large aquiline nose, and heavy eyebrows shading quiet eyes. Most of the people knew him well as the doctor’s protégé. One day the good old doctor came to him with an air of much mysterious importance. He passed Vane’s arm through his, and led him to his favorite walk up and down the garden. “My son,” he began, tapping him on the shoulder, and beginning in a way he evidently thought to be diplomatic, “you are growing older, and it is not good for you to be alone. Listen! it is time you should marry.”
Vane looked up quickly, and then struggled to repress a smile.
“Listen, my child,” continued the doctor, much pleased, “I have to propose a parti of the most charming—but of the most charming! My wife’s own cousin and two hundred thousand livres of dot! What say you?”