“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.”