The Hermit and the Wild Woman

MRS. NEWELL, that afternoon, met him on the threshold of her sitting-room with a “Well?” of pent-up anxiety.

In the room itself, Baron Schenkelderff sat with crossed legs and head thrown back, in an attitude which he did not see fit to alter at the young man’s approach.

Garnett hesitated; but it was not the summariness of the Baron’s greeting which he resented.

“You’ve found him?” Mrs. Newell exclaimed.

“Yes; but—­”

She followed his glance and answered it with a slight shrug.  “I can’t take you into my room, because there’s a dress-maker there, and she won’t go because she is waiting to be paid.  Schenkelderff,” she exclaimed, “you’re not wanted; please go and look out of the window.”

The Baron rose and, lighting a cigarette, laughingly retired to the embrasure.  Mrs. Newell flung herself down and signed to Garnett to take a seat at her side.

“Well—­you’ve found him?  You’ve talked with him?”

“Yes; I have talked with him—­for an hour.”

She made an impatient movement.  “That’s too long!  Does he refuse?”

“He doesn’t consent.”

“Then you mean—?”

“He wants time to think it over.”

“Time?  There is no time—­did you tell him so?”

“I told him so; but you must remember that he has plenty.  He has taken twenty-four hours.”

Mrs. Newell groaned.  “Oh, that’s too much.  When he thinks things over he always refuses.”

“Well, he would have refused at once if I had not agreed to the delay.”

She rose nervously from her seat and pressed her hands to her forehead.  “It’s too hard, after all I’ve done!  The trousseau is ordered—­think how disgraceful!  You must have managed him badly; I’ll go and see him myself.”

The Baron, at this, turned abruptly from his study of the Place Vendome.

“My dear creature, for heaven’s sake don’t spoil everything!” he exclaimed.

Mrs. Newell coloured furiously.  “What’s the meaning of that brilliant speech?”

“I was merely putting myself in the place of a man on whom you have ceased to smile.”

He picked up his hat and stick, nodded knowingly to Garnett, and walked toward the door with an air of creaking jauntiness.

But on the threshold Mrs. Newell waylaid him.

“Don’t go—­I must speak to you,” she said, following him into the antechamber; and Garnett remembered the dress-maker who was not to be dislodged from her bedroom.

In a moment Mrs. Newell returned, with a small flat packet which she vainly sought to dissemble in an inaccessible pocket.

“He makes everything too odious!” she exclaimed; but whether she referred to her husband or the Baron it was left to Garnett to decide.

She sat silent, nervously twisting her cigarette-case between her fingers, while her visitor rehearsed the details of his conversation with Mr. Newell.  He did not indeed tell her the arguments he had used to shake her husband’s resolve, since in his eloquent sketch of Hermione’s situation there had perforce entered hints unflattering to her mother; but he gave the impression that his hearer had in the end been moved, and for that reason had consented to defer his refusal.

“Ah, it’s not that—­it’s to prolong our misery!” Mrs. Newell exclaimed; and after a moment she added drearily:  “He has been waiting for such an opportunity for years.”

It seemed needless for Garnett to protract his visit, and he took leave with the promise to report at once the result of his final talk with Mr. Newell.  But as he was passing through the ante-chamber a side-door opened and Hermione stood before him.  Her face was flushed and shaken out of its usual repose of line, and he saw at once that she had been waiting for him.

“Mr. Garnett!” she said in a whisper.

He paused, considering her with surprise:  he had never supposed her capable of such emotion as her voice and eyes revealed.

“I want to speak to you; we are quite safe here.  Mamma is with the dress-maker,” she explained, closing the door behind her, while Garnett laid aside his hat and stick.

“I am at your service,” he said.

“You have seen my father?  Mamma told me that you were to see him to-day,” the girl went on, standing close to him in order that she might not have to raise her voice.

“Yes; I have seen him,” Garnett replied with increasing wonder.  Hermione had never before mentioned her father to him, and it was by a slight stretch of veracity that he had included her name in her mother’s plea to Mr. Newell.  He had supposed her to be either unconscious of the transaction, or else too much engrossed in her own happiness to give it a thought; and he had forgiven her the last alternative in consideration of the abnormal character of her filial relations.  But now he saw that he must readjust his view of her.

“You went to ask him to come to my wedding; I know about it,” Hermione continued.  “Of course it is the custom—­people will think it odd if he does not come.”  She paused, and then asked:  “Does he consent?”

“No; he has not yet consented.”

“Ah, I thought so when I saw Mamma just now!”

“But he hasn’t quite refused—­he has promised to think it over.”

“But he hated it—­he hated the idea?”

Garnett hesitated.  “It seemed to arouse painful associations.”

“Ah, it would—­it would!” she exclaimed.

He was astonished at the passion of her accent; astonished still more at the tone with which she went on, laying her hand on his arm:  “Mr. Garnett, he must not be asked—­he has been asked too often to do things that he hated!”

Garnett looked at the girl with a shock of awe.  What abysses of knowledge did her purity hide?

“But, my dear Miss Hermione—­” he began.

“I know what you are going to say,” she interrupted him.  “It is necessary that he should be present at the marriage or the du Trayas will break it off.  They don’t want it very much, at any rate,” she added with a strange candour, “and they will not be sorry, perhaps—­for of course Louis would have to obey them.”

“So I explained to your father,” Garnett assured her.

“Yes—­yes; I knew you would put it to him.  But that makes no difference, Mr. Garnett.  He must not be forced to come unwillingly.”

“But if he sees the point—­after all, no one can force him!”

“No; but if it is painful to him—­if it reminds him too much . . .  Oh, Mr. Garnett, I was not a child when he left us. . . .  I was old enough to see . . . to see how it must hurt him even now to be reminded.  Peace was all he asked for, and I want him to be left in peace!”

Garnett paused in deep embarrassment.  “My dear child, there is no need to remind you that your own future—­”

She had a gesture that recalled her mother.  “My future must take care of itself; he must not be made to see us!” she said imperatively.  And as Garnett remained silent she went on:  “I have always hoped he did not hate me, but he would hate me now if he were forced to see me.”

“Not if he could see you at this moment!” he exclaimed.

She lifted her face with swimming eyes.

“Well, go to him, then; tell him what I have said to you!”

Garnett continued to stand before her, deeply struck.  “It might be the best thing,” he reflected inwardly; but he did not give utterance to the thought.  He merely put out his hand, holding Hermione’s in a long pressure.

“I will do whatever you wish,” he replied.

“You understand that I am in earnest?” she urged tenaciously.

“I am quite sure of it.”

“Then I want you to repeat to him what I have said—­I want him to be left undisturbed.  I don’t want him ever to hear of us again!”

The next day, at the appointed hour, Garnett resorted to the Luxembourg gardens, which Mr. Newell had named as a meeting-place in preference to his own lodgings.  It was clear that he did not wish to admit the young man any further into his privacy than the occasion required, and the extreme shabbiness of his dress hinted that pride might be the cause of his reluctance.

Garnett found him feeding the sparrows, but he desisted at the young man’s approach, and said at once:  “You will not thank me for bringing you all this distance.”

“If that means that you are going to send me away with a refusal, I have come to spare you the necessity,” Garnett answered.

Mr. Newell turned on him a glance of undisguised wonder, in which an undertone of disappointment might almost have been detected.

“Ah—­they’ve got no use for me, after all?” be said ironically.

Garnett, in reply, related without comment his conversation with Hermione, and the message with which she had charged him.  He remembered her words exactly and repeated them without modification, heedless of what they implied or revealed.

Mr. Newell listened with an immovable face, occasionally casting a crumb to his flock.  When Garnett ended he asked:  “Does her mother know of this?”

” Assuredly not!” cried Garnett with a movement of disgust.

“You must pardon me; but Mrs. Newell is a very ingenious woman.”  Mr. Newell shook out his remaining crumbs and turned thoughtfully toward Garnett.

“You believe it’s quite clear to Hermione that these people will use my refusal as a pretext for backing out of the marriage?”

“Perfectly clear—­she told me so herself.”

“Doesn’t she consider the young man rather chicken-hearted?”

“No; he has already put up a big fight for her, and you know the French look at these things differently.  He’s only twenty-three and his marrying against his parents’ approval is in itself an act of heroism.”

“Yes; I believe they look at it that way,” Mr. Newell assented.  He rose and picked up the half-smoked cigar which he had laid on the bench beside him.

“What do they wear at these French weddings, anyhow?  A dress-suit, isn’t it?” he asked.

The question was such a surprise to Garnett that for the moment he could only stammer out—­“You consent then?  I may go and tell her?”

“You may tell my girl—­yes.”  He gave a vague laugh and added:  “One way or another, my wife always gets what she wants.”