The Crime of Henry Vane: A Study with a MoralStimson, Frederic Jesup
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The Crime of Henry Vane: A Study with a Moral
Stimson, Frederic Jesup
Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Single men -- Fiction
JOHN HAVILAND was with him a great deal of this time, and, on his
recovery, took him severely to task for the life he had been leading.
For three years he had been a mere machine--a blind, passionless,
purposeful energy. A man, and a young man, could not live like that.
What pleasure had he taken in all that time? And a young man, unless
he has attained happiness, cannot live entirely without pleasure, even
if it be true that he should not seek for it. And Haviland knew enough
of Vane's life to feel assured that there had not hitherto been much
happiness. Moreover, Vane was a man of the world, and had been out of
it for three years. It was unnatural. He should see something of the
people of his own country. His mother was well; and would probably be
the same for years. And he had been nearly three years in mourning.
"Now," John concluded, "I wish you to come to a dinner at our house on
Friday."
Vane smiled, and looked at his threadbare black suit--one of the
original black suits--which had seen much service since he brought it
over from France. But he pleasantly accepted John's invitation, and
forthwith visited his tailor. That afternoon, in the park, as he turned
to come home from his walk, and saw the walls and spires of his own
city harshly outlined before the sunset, he realized for the first time
that he was a stranger in a strange land. For the first time, as he
walked down Fifth Avenue, between the level, high wall of house fronts,
with their regular squares of lighted windows, he caught himself
wondering what was behind these windows. Now and then he saw a feminine
silhouette on the white window-shades; in some houses, even, he could
see into a lower room; there were usually pictures on the walls and
often books, or bindings, on the shelves; there was frequently an old
gentleman by the fireside, and always a young girl or two. It was
piquant to catch these glimpses of the domestic hearth from the street;
he remembered how impossible such visions were in the Faubourg, among
the old hotels between court and garden.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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