The Hermit and the Wild Woman

“IT’S about Hermy,” Mrs. Newell said, rising from the heap of embroidered cushions which formed the background of her afternoon repose.

Her sitting-room at Ritz’s was full of penetrating warmth and fragrance.  Long-stemmed roses filled the vases on the chimney-piece, in which a fire sparkled with that effect of luxury which fires produce when the weather is not cold enough to justify them.  On the writing-table, among notes and cards, and signed photographs of celebrities, Mrs. Newell’s gold inkstand, her jewelled penholder, her heavily-monogrammed despatch-box, gave back from their expensive surfaces the glint of the flame, which sought out and magnified the orient of the pearls among the lady’s laces and found a mirror in the pinky polish of her finger-tips.  It was just such a scene as a little September fire, lit for show and not for warmth, would delight to dwell on and pick out in all its opulent details; and even Garnett, inured to Mrs. Newell’s capacity for extracting manna from the desert, reflected that she must have found new fields to glean.

“It’s about Hermy,” she repeated, making room for him among the cushions.  “I had to see you at once.  We came over yesterday from London.”

Garnett, seating himself, continued his leisurely survey of the room.  In the glitter of Mrs. Newell’s magnificence Hermione, as usual, faded out of sight, and he hardly noticed her mother’s allusion.

“I have never seen you more resplendent,” he remarked.

She received the tribute with complacency.  “The rooms are not bad, are they?  We came over with the Woolsey Hubbards (you’ve heard of them, of course?—­they’re from Detroit), and really they do things very decently.  Their motor-car met us at Boulogne, and the courier always wires ahead to have the rooms filled with flowers.  This salon, is really a part of their suite.  I simply couldn’t have afforded it myself.”

She delivered these facts in a high decisive voice, which had a note akin to the clink of her many bracelets and the rattle of her ringed hands against the enamelled cigarette-case which she extended to Garnett after helping herself from its contents.

“You are always meeting such charming people,” said Garnett with mild irony; and, reverting to her first remark, he bethought himself to add:  “I hope Miss Hermione is not ill?”

“Ill?  She was never ill in her life,” exclaimed Mrs. Newell, as though her daughter had been accused of an indelicacy.

“It was only that you said you had come over on her account.”

“So I have.  Hermione is to be married.”

Mrs. Newell brought out the words impressively, drawing back to observe their effect on her visitor.  It was such that he received them with a long silent stare, which finally passed into a cry of wonder.  “Married?  For heaven’s sake, to whom?”

Mrs. Newell continued to regard him with a smile so serene and victorious that he saw she took his somewhat unseemly astonishment as a merited tribute to her genius.  Presently she extended a glittering hand and took a sheet of note paper from the blotter.

“You can have that put in to-morrow’s Herald,” she said.

Garnett, receiving the paper, read in Hermione’s own finished hand:  “A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place, between the Comte Louis du Trayas, son of the Marquis du Trayas de la Baume, and Miss Hermione Newell, daughter of Samuel C. Newell Esqre. of Elmira, N. Y. Comte Louis du Trayas belongs to one of the oldest and most distinguished families in France, and is equally well connected in England, being the nephew of Lord Saint Priscoe and a cousin of the Countess of Morningfield, whom he frequently visits at Adham and Portlow.”

The perusal of this document filled Garnett with such deepening wonder that he could not, for the moment, even do justice to the strangeness of its being written out for publication in the bride’s own hand.  Hermione a bride!  Hermione a future countess!  Hermione on the brink of a marriage which would give her not only a great “situation” in the Parisian world but a footing in some of the best houses in England!  Regardless of its unflattering implications, Garnett prolonged his stare of mute amazement till Mrs. Newell somewhat sharply exclaimed—­“Well, didn’t I always tell you that she would marry a Frenchman?”

Garnett, in spite of himself, smiled at this revised version of his hostess’s frequent assertion that Hermione was too goody-goody to take in England, but that with her little dowdy air she might very well “go off” in the Faubourg if only a dot could be raked up for her—­and the recollection flashed a new light on the versatility of Mrs. Newell’s genius.

“But how did you do it—?” was on the tip of his tongue; and he had barely time to give the query the more conventional turn of:  “How did it happen?”

“Oh, we were up at Glaish with the Edmund Fitzarthurs.  Lady Edmund is a sort of cousin of the Morningfields’, who have a shooting-lodge near Glaish—­a place called Portlow—­and young Trayas was there with them.  Lady Edmund, who is a dear, drove Hermy over to Portlow, and the thing was done in no time.  He simply fell over head and ears in love with her.  You know Hermy is really very handsome in her peculiar way.  I don’t think you have ever appreciated her,” Mrs. Newell summed up with a note of exquisite reproach.

“I’ve appreciated her, I assure you; but one somehow didn’t think of her marrying—­so soon.”

“Soon?  She’s three-and-twenty; but you’ve no imagination,” said Mrs. Newell; and Garnett inwardly admitted that he had not enough to soar to the heights of her invention.  For the marriage, of course, was an invention of her own, a superlative stroke of business, in which he was sure the principal parties had all been passive agents, in which everyone, from the bankrupt and disreputable Fitzarthurs to the rich and immaculate Morningfields, had by some mysterious sleight of hand been made to fit into Mrs. Newell’s designs.  But it was not enough for Garnett to marvel at her work—­he wanted to understand it, to take it apart, to find out how the trick had been done.  It was true that Mrs. Newell had always said Hermy might go off in the Faubourg if she had a dot—­but even Mrs. Newell’s juggling could hardly conjure up a dot: such feats as she was able to perform in this line were usually made to serve her own urgent necessities.  And besides, who was likely to take sufficient interest in Hermione to supply her with the means of marrying a French nobleman?  The flowers ordered in advance by the Woolsey Hubbards’ courier made Garnett wonder if that accomplished functionary had also wired over to have Miss Newell’s settlements drawn up.  But of all the comments hovering on his lips the only one he could decently formulate was the remark that he supposed Mrs. Newell and her daughter had come over to see the young man’s family and make the final arrangements.

“Oh, they’re made—­everything is settled,” said Mrs. Newell, looking him squarely in the eye.  “You’re wondering, of course, about the dot—­Frenchmen never go off their heads to the extent of forgetting that; or at least their parents don’t allow them to.”

Garnett murmured a vague assent, and she went on without the least appearance of resenting his curiosity:  “It all came about so fortunately.  Only fancy, just the week they met I got a little legacy from an aunt in Elmira—­a good soul I hadn’t seen or heard of for years.  I suppose I ought to have put on mourning for her, by the way, but it would have eaten up a good bit of the legacy, and I really needed it all for poor Hermy.  Oh, it’s not a fortune, you understand—­but the young man is madly in love, and has always had his own way, so after a lot of correspondence it’s been arranged.  They saw Hermy this morning, and they’re enchanted.”

“And the marriage takes place very soon?”

“Yes, in a few weeks, here.  His mother is an invalid and couldn’t have gone to England.  Besides, the French don’t travel.  And as Hermy has become a Catholic—­”

“Already?”

Mrs. Newell stared.  “It doesn’t take long.  And it suits Hermy exactly—­she can go to church so much oftener.  So I thought,” Mrs. Newell concluded with dignity, “that a wedding at Saint Philippe du Roule would be the most suitable thing at this season.”

“Dear me,” said Garnett, “I am left breathless—­I can’t catch up with you.  I suppose even the day is fixed, though Miss Hermione doesn’t mention it,” and he indicated the official announcement in his hand.

Mrs. Newell laughed.  “Hermy had to write that herself, poor dear, because my scrawl’s too hideous—­but I dictated it.  No, the day isn’t fixed—­that’s why I sent for you.”  There was a splendid directness about Mrs. Newell.  It would never have occurred to her to pretend to Garnett that she had summoned him for the pleasure of his company.

“You’ve sent for me—­to fix the day?” he enquired humourously.

“To remove the last obstacle to its being fixed.”

“I?  What kind of an obstacle could I have the least effect on?”

Mrs. Newell met his banter with a look which quelled it.  “I want you to find her father.”

“Her father?  Miss Hermione’s—?”

“My husband, of course.  I suppose you know he’s living.”

Garnett blushed at his own clumsiness.  “I—­yes—­that is, I really knew nothing—­” he stammered, feeling that each word added to it.  If Hermione was unnoticeable, Mr. Newell had always been invisible.  The young man had never so much as given him a thought, and it was awkward to come on him so suddenly at a turn of the talk.

“Well, he is—­living here in Paris,” said Mrs. Newell, with a note of asperity which seemed to imply that her friend might have taken the trouble to post himself on this point.

“In Paris?  But in that case isn’t it quite simple—?”

“To find him?  I daresay it won’t be difficult, though he is rather mysterious.  But the point is that I can’t go to him—­and that if I write to him he won’t answer.”

“Ah,” said Garnett thoughtfully.

“And so you’ve got to find him for me, and tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That he must come to the wedding—­that we must show ourselves together at church and at the breakfast.”

She delivered the behest in her sharp imperative key, the tone of the born commander.  But for once Garnett ventured to question her orders.

“And supposing he won’t come?”

“He must if he cares for his daughter’s happiness.  She can’t be married without him.”

“Can’t be married?”

“The French are like that—­especially the old families.  I was given to understand at once that my husband must appear—­if only to establish the fact that we’re not divorced.”

“Ah—­you’re not, then?” escaped from Garnett.

“Mercy, no!  Divorce is stupid.  They don’t like it in Europe.  And in this case it would have been the end of Hermy’s marriage.  They wouldn’t think of letting their son marry the child of divorced parents.”

“How fortunate, then—­”

“Yes; but I always think of such things beforehand.  And of course I’ve told them that my husband will be present.”

“You think he will consent?”

“No; not at first; but you must make him.  You must tell him how sweet Hermione is—­and you must see Louis, and be able to describe their happiness.  You must dine here to-night—­he is coming.  We’re all dining with the Hubbards, and they expect you.  They have given Hermy some very good diamonds—­though I should have preferred a cheque, as she’ll be horribly poor.  But I think Kate Hubbard means to do something about the trousseau—­Hermy is at Paquin’s with her now.  You’ve no idea how delightful all our friends have been.—­Ah, here is one of them now,” she broke off smiling, as the door opened to admit, without preliminary announcement, a gentleman so glossy and ancient, with such a fixed unnatural freshness of smile and eye, that he gave Garnett the effect of having been embalmed and then enamelled.  It needed not the exotic-looking ribbon in the visitor’s button-hole, nor Mrs. Newell’s introduction of him as her friend Baron Schenkelderff, to assure Garnett of his connection with a race as ancient as his appearance.

Baron Schenkelderff greeted his hostess with paternal playfulness, and the young man with an ease which might have been acquired on the Stock Exchange and in the dressing-rooms of “leading ladies.”  He spoke a faultless, colourless English, from which one felt he might pass with equal mastery to half a dozen other languages.  He enquired patronizingly for the excellent Hubbards, asked his hostess if she did not mean to give him a drop of tea and a cigarette, remarked that he need not ask if Hermione was still closeted with the dress-maker, and, on the waiter’s coming in answer to his ring, ordered the tea himself, and added a request for fine champagne.  It was not the first time that Garnett had seen such minor liberties taken in Mrs. Newell’s drawing-room, but they had hitherto been taken by persons who had at least the superiority of knowing what they were permitting themselves, whereas the young man felt almost sure that Baron Schenkelderff’s manner was the most distinguished he could achieve; and this deepened the disgust with which, as the minutes passed, he yielded to the conviction that the Baron was Mrs. Newell’s aunt.