The Hermit and the Wild Woman

IF Mr. Newell read in the papers the announcement of his daughter’s marriage it did not cause him to lift the veil of seclusion in which his wife represented him as shrouded.

A round of the American banks in Paris failed to give Garnett his address, and it was only in chance talk with one of the young secretaries of the Embassy that he was put on Mr. Newell’s track.  The secretary’s father, it appeared, had known the Newells some twenty years earlier.  He had had business relations with Mr. Newell, who was then a man of property, with factories or something of the kind, the narrator thought, somewhere in Western New York.  There had been at this period, for Mrs. Newell, a phase of large hospitality and showy carriages in Washington and at Narragansett.  Then her husband had had reverses, had lost heavily in Wall Street, and had finally drifted abroad and been lost to sight.  The young man did not know at what point in his financial decline Mr. Newell had parted company with his wife and daughter; “though you may bet your hat,” he philosophically concluded, “that the old girl hung on as long as there were any pickings.”  He did not himself know Mr. Newell’s address, but opined that it might be extracted from a certain official at the Consulate, if Garnett could give a sufficiently good reason for the request; and here in fact Mrs. Newell’s emissary learned that her husband was to be found in an obscure street of the Luxembourg quarter.

In order to be near the scene of action, Garnett went to breakfast at his usual haunt, determined to despatch his business as early in the day as politeness allowed.  The head waiter welcomed him to a table near that of the transatlantic sage, who sat in his customary corner, his head tilted back against the blistered mirror at an angle suggesting that in a freer civilization his feet would have sought the same level.  He greeted Garnett affably and the two exchanged their usual generalizations on life till the sage rose to go; whereupon it occurred to Garnett to accompany him.  His friend took the offer in good part, merely remarking that he was going to the Luxembourg gardens, where it was his invariable habit, on good days, to feed the sparrows with the remains of his breakfast roll; and Garnett replied that, as it happened, his own business lay in the same direction.

“Perhaps, by the way,” he added, “you can tell me how to find the rue Panonceaux where I must go presently.  I thought I knew this quarter fairly well, but I have never heard of it.”

His companion came to a sudden halt on the narrow sidewalk, to the confusion of the dense and desultory traffic which marks the old streets of the Latin quarter.  He fixed his mild eye on Garnett and gave a twist to the cigar which lingered in the corner of his mouth.

“The rue Panonceaux?  It is an out of the way hole, but I can tell you how to find it,” he answered.

He made no motion to do so, however, but continued to bend on the young man the full force of his interrogative gaze; then he added abruptly:  “Would you mind telling me your object in going there?”

Garnett looked at him with surprise:  a question so unblushingly personal was strangely out of keeping with his friend’s usual attitude of detachment.  Before he could reply, however, the other had quietly continued:  “Do you happen to be in search of Samuel C. Newell?”

“Why, yes, I am,” said Garnett with a start of conjecture.

His companion uttered a sigh.  “I supposed so,” he said resignedly; “and in that case,” he added, “we may as well have the matter out in the Luxembourg.”

Garnett had halted before him with deepening astonishment.  “But you don’t mean to tell me—?” he stammered.

The little man made a motion of assent.  “I am Samuel C. Newell,” he said drily; “and if you have no objection, I prefer not to break through my habit of feeding the sparrows.  We are five minutes late as it is.”

He quickened his pace without awaiting any reply from Garnett, who walked beside him in unsubdued wonder till they reached the Luxembourg gardens, where Mr. Newell, making for one of the less frequented alleys, seated himself on a bench and drew the fragment of a roll from his pocket.  His coming was evidently expected, for a shower of little dusky bodies at once descended on him, and the gravel fluttered with battling wings and beaks as he distributed his dole with impartial gestures.

It was not till the ground was white with crumbs, and the first frenzy of his pensioners appeased, that he turned to Garnett and said:  “I presume, sir, that you come from my wife.”

Garnett coloured with embarrassment:  the more simply the old man took his mission the more complicated it appeared to himself.

“From your wife—­and from Miss Newell,” he said at length.  “You have perhaps heard that she is to be married.”

“Oh, yes—­I read the Herald pretty faithfully,” said Miss Newell’s parent, shaking out another handful of crumbs.

Garnett cleared his throat.  “Then you have no doubt thought it natural that, under the circumstances, they should wish to communicate with you.”

The sage continued to fix his attention on the sparrows.  “My wife,” he remarked, “might have written to me.”

“Mrs. Newell was afraid she might not hear from you in reply.”

“In reply?  Why should she?  I suppose she merely wishes to announce the marriage.  She knows I have no money left to buy wedding-presents,” said Mr. Newell astonishingly.

Garnett felt his colour deepen:  he had a vague sense of standing as the representative of something guilty and enormous, with which he had rashly identified himself.

“I don’t think you understand,” he said.  “Mrs. Newell and your daughter have asked me to see you because they are anxious that you should consent to appear at the wedding.”

Mr. Newell, at this, ceased to give his attention to the birds, and turned a compassionate gaze upon Garnett.

“My dear sir—­I don’t know your name—­” he remarked, “would you mind telling me how long you have been acquainted with Mrs. Newell?” And without waiting for an answer he added judicially:  “If you wait long enough she will ask you to do some very disagreeable things for her.”

This echo of his own thoughts gave Garnett a sharp twinge of discomfort, but he made shift to answer good-humouredly:  “If you refer to my present errand, I must tell you that I don’t find it disagreeable to do anything which may be of service to Miss Hermione.”

Mr. Newell fumbled in his pocket, as though searching unavailingly for another morsel of bread; then he said:  “From her point of view I shall not be the most important person at the ceremony.”

Garnett smiled.  “That is hardly a reason—­” he began; but he was checked by the brevity of tone with which his companion replied:  “I am not aware that I am called upon to give you my reasons.”

“You are certainly not,” the young man rejoined, “except in so far as you are willing to consider me as the messenger of your wife and daughter.”

“Oh, I accept your credentials,” said the other with his dry smile; “what I don’t recognize is their right to send a message.”

This reduced Garnett to silence, and after a moment’s pause Mr. Newell drew his watch from his pocket.

“I am sorry to cut the conversation short, but my days are mapped out with a certain regularity, and this is the hour for my nap.”  He rose as he spoke and held out his hand with a glint of melancholy humour in his small clear eyes.

“You dismiss me, then?  I am to take back a refusal?” the young man exclaimed.

“My dear sir, those ladies have got on very well without me for a number of years:  I imagine they can put through this wedding without my help.”

“You are mistaken, then; if it were not for that I shouldn’t have undertaken this errand.”

Mr. Newell paused as he was turning away.  “Not for what?” he enquired.

“The fact that, as it happens, the wedding can’t be put through without your help.”

Mr. Newell’s thin lips formed a noiseless whistle.  “They’ve got to have my consent, have they?  Well, is he a good young man?”

“The bridegroom?” Garnett echoed in surprise.  “I hear the best accounts of him—­and Miss Newell is very much in love.”

Her parent met this with an odd smile.  “Well, then, I give my consent—­it’s all I’ve got left to give,” he added philosophically.

Garnett hesitated.  “But if you consent—­if you approve—­why do you refuse your daughter’s request?”

Mr. Newell looked at him a moment.  “Ask Mrs. Newell!” he said.  And as Garnett was again silent, he turned away with a slight gesture of leave-taking.

But in an instant the young man was at his side.  “I will not ask your reasons, sir,” he said, “but I will give you mine for being here.  Miss Newell cannot be married unless you are present at the ceremony.  The young man’s parents know that she has a father living, and they give their consent only on condition that he appears at her marriage.  I believe it is customary in old French families—.”

“Old French families be damned!” said Mr. Newell with sudden vigour.  “She had better marry an American.”  And he made a more decided motion to free himself from Garnett’s importunities.

But his resistance only strengthened the young man’s.  The more unpleasant the latter’s task became, the more unwilling he grew to see his efforts end in failure.  During the three days which had been consumed in his quest it had become clear to him that the bridegroom’s parents, having been surprised into a reluctant consent, were but too ready to withdraw it on the plea of Mr. Newell’s non-appearance.  Mrs. Newell, on the last edge of tension, had confided to Garnett that the Morningfields were “being nasty”; and he could picture the whole powerful clan, on both sides of the Channel, arrayed in a common resolve to exclude poor Hermione from their ranks.  The very inequality of the contest stirred his blood, and made him vow that in this case at least the sins of the parents should not be visited on the children.  In his talk with the young secretary he had obtained some glimpses of Baron Schenkelderff’s past which fortified this resolve.  The Baron, at one time a familiar figure in a much-observed London set, had been mixed up in an ugly money-lending business ending in suicide, which had excluded him from the society most accessible to his race.  His alliance with Mrs. Newell was doubtless a desperate attempt at rehabilitation, a forlorn hope on both sides, but likely to be an enduring tie because it represented, to both partners, their last chance of escape from social extinction.  That Hermione’s marriage was a mere stake in their game did not in the least affect Garnett’s view of its urgency.  If on their part it was a sordid speculation, to her it had the freshness of the first wooing.  If it made of her a mere pawn in their hands, it would put her, so Garnett hoped, beyond farther risk of such base uses; and to achieve this had become a necessity to him.

The sense that, if he lost sight of Mr. Newell, the latter might not easily be found again, nerved Garnett to hold his ground in spite of the resistance he encountered; and he tried to put the full force of his plea into the tone with which he cried:  “Ah, you don’t know your daughter!”