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<h2> CHAPTER XIX </h2> He looked old and tired and sad; it was plain that he expected attack and equally plain that he would meet it with fanatic serenity. And yet, the magnificent blunderer presented so fine an aspect of the tortured Olympian, he confronted us with so vast a dignity—the driven snow of his hair tousled upon his head and shoulders, like a storm in the higher altitudes—that he regained, in my eyes, something of his mountain grandeur before he had spoken a word in defence. But sympathy is not what one should be entertaining for an antagonist; therefore I said cavalierly: “This is Mr. Ward, Professor Keredec. He is Mrs. Harman’s cousin and close friend.” “I had divined it.” The professor made a French bow, and George responded with as slight a salutation as it has been my lot to see. “We were speaking of your reasons,” I continued, “for bringing Mr. Harman to this place. Frankly, we were questioning your motive.” “My motives? I have wished to restore to two young people the paradise which they had lost”. Ward uttered an exclamation none the less violent because it was half-suppressed, while, for my part, I laughed outright; and as Keredec turned his eyes questioningly upon me, I said: “Professor Keredec, you’d better understand at once that I mean to help undo the harm you’ve done. I couldn’t tell you last night, in Harman’s presence, but I think you’re responsible for the whole ghastly tragi-comedy—as hopeless a tangle as ever was made on this earth!” This was even more roughly spoken than I had intended, but it did not cause him to look less mildly upon me, nor was there the faintest shadow of resentment in his big voice when he replied: “In this world things may be tangled, they may be sad, yet they may be good.” “I’m afraid that seems rather a trite generality. I beg you to remember that plain-speaking is of some importance just now.” “I shall remember.” “Then we should be glad of the explanation,” said Ward, resting his arms on my table and leaning across it toward Keredec. “We should, indeed,” I echoed. “It is simple,” began the professor. “I learned my poor boy’s history well, from those who could tell me, from his papers—yes, and from the bundles of old-time letters which were given me—since it was necessary that I should know everything. From all these I learned what a strong and beautiful soul was that lady who loved him so much that she ran away from her home for his sake. Helas! he was already the slave of what was bad and foolish, he had gone too far from himself, was overlaid with the habit of evil, and she could not save him then. The spirit was dying in him, although it was there, and IT was good—” Ward’s acrid laughter rang out in the room, and my admiration went unwillingly to Keredec for the way he took it, which was to bow gravely, as if acknowledging the other’s right to his own point of view. “If you will study the antique busts,” he said, “you will find that Socrates is Silenus dignified. I choose to believe in the infinite capacities of all men—and in the spirit in all. And so I try to restore my poor boy his capacities and his spirit. But that was not all. The time was coming when I could do no more for him, when the little education of books would be finish’ and he must go out in the world again to learn—all newly—how to make of himself a man of use. That is the time of danger, and the thought was troubling me when I learned that Madame Harman was here, near this inn, of which I knew. So I brought him.” “The inconceivable selfishness, the devilish brutality of it!” Ward’s face was scarlet. “You didn’t care how you sacrificed her—” “Sacrificed!” The professor suddenly released the huge volume of his voice. “Sacrificed!” he thundered. “If I could give him back to her as he is now, it would be restoring to her all that she had loved in him, the real SELF of him! It would be the greatest gift in her life.” “You speak for her?” demanded Ward, the question coming like a lawyer’s. It failed to disturb Keredec, who replied quietly: “It is a quibble. I speak for her, yes, my dear sir. Her action in defiance of her family and her friends proved the strength of what she felt for the man she married; that she have remained with him three years—until it was impossible—proved its persistence; her letters, which I read with reverence, proved its beauty—to me. It was a living passion, one that could not die. To let them see each other again; that was all I intended. To give them their new chance—and then, for myself, to keep out of the way. That was why—” he turned to me—“that was why I have been guilty of pretending to have that bad rheumatism, and I hope you will not think it an ugly trick of me! It was to give him his chance freely; and though at first I had much anxiety, it was done. In spite of all his wicked follies theirs had been a true love, and nothing in this world could be more inevitable than that they should come together again if the chance could be given. And they HAVE, my dear sirs! It has so happened. To him it has been a wooing as if for the first time; so she has preferred it, keeping him to his mistake of her name. She feared that if he knew that it was the same as his own he might ask questions of me, and, you see, she did not know that I had made this little plan, and was afraid—” “We are not questioning Mrs. Harman’s motives,” George interrupted hotly, “but YOURS!” “Very well, my dear sir; that is all. I have explained them.” “You have?” I interjected. “Then, my dear Keredec, either you are really insane or I am! You knew that this poor, unfortunate devil of a Harman was tied to that hyenic prowler yonder who means to fatten on him, and will never release him; you knew that. Then why did you bring him down here to fall in love with a woman he can never have? In pity’s name, if you didn’t hope to half kill them both, what DID you mean?” “My dear fellow,” interposed George quickly, “you underrate Professor Keredec’s shrewdness. His plans are not so simple as you think. He knows that my cousin Louise never obtained a divorce from her husband.” “What?” I said, not immediately comprehending his meaning. “I say, Mrs. Harman never obtained a divorce.” “Are you delirious?” I gasped. “It’s the truth; she never did.” “I saw a notice of it at the time. ‘A notice?’ I saw a hundred!” “No. What you saw was that she had made an application for divorce. Her family got her that far and then she revolted. The suit was dropped.” “It is true, indeed,” said Keredec. “The poor boy was on the other side of the world, and he thought it was granted. He had been bad before, but from that time he cared nothing what became of him. That was the reason this Spanish woman—” I turned upon him sharply. “YOU knew it?” “It is a year that I have known it; when his estate was—” “Then why didn’t you tell me last night?” “My dear sir, I could not in HIS presence, because it is one thing I dare not let him know. This Spanish woman is so hideous, her claim upon him is so horrible to him I could not hope to control him—he would shout it out to her that she cannot call him husband. God knows what he would do!” “Well, why shouldn’t he shout it out to her?” “You do not understand,” George interposed again, “that what Professor Keredec risked for his ‘poor boy,’ in returning to France, was a trial on the charge of bigamy!” The professor recoiled from the definite brutality. “My dear sir! It is not possible that such a thing can happen.” “I conceive it very likely to happen,” said George, “unless you get him out of the country before the lady now installed here as his wife discovers the truth.” “But she must not!” Keredec lifted both hands toward Ward appealingly; they trembled, and his voice betrayed profound agitation. “She cannot! She has never suspected such a thing; there is nothing that could MAKE her suspect it!” “One particular thing would be my telling her,” said Ward quietly. “Never!” cried the professor, stepping back from him. “You could not do that!” “I not only could, but I will, unless you get him out of the country—and quickly!” “George!” I exclaimed, coming forward between them. “This won’t do at all. You can’t—” “That’s enough,” he said, waving me back, and I saw that his hand was shaking, too, like Keredec’s. His face had grown very white; but he controlled himself to speak with a coolness that made what he said painfully convincing. “I know what you think,” he went on, addressing me, “but you’re wrong. It isn’t for myself. When I sailed for New York in the spring I thought there was a chance that she would carry out the action she begun four years ago and go through the form of ridding herself of him definitely; that is, I thought there was some hope for me; I believed there was until this morning. But I know better now. If she’s seen him again, and he’s been anything except literally unbearable, it’s all over with ME. From the first, I never had a chance against him; he was a hard rival, even when he’d become only a cruel memory.” His voice rose. “I’ve lived a sober, decent life, and I’ve treated HER with gentleness and reverence since she was born, and HE’S done nothing but make a stew-pan of his life and neglect and betray her when he had her. Heaven knows why it is; it isn’t because of anything he’s done or has, it’s just because it’s HIM, I suppose, but I know my chance is gone for good! THAT leaves me free to act for her; no one can accuse me of doing it for myself. And I swear she sha’n’t go through that slough of despond again while I have breath in my body!” “Steady, George!” I said. “Oh, I’m steady enough,” he cried. “Professor Keredec shall be convinced of it! My cousin is not going into the mire again; she shall be freed of it for ever: I speak as her relative now, the representative of her family and of those who care for her happiness and good. Now she SHALL make the separation definite—and LEGAL! And let Professor Keredec get his ‘poor boy’ out of the country. Let him do it quickly! I make it as a condition of my not informing the woman yonder and her lawyer. And by my hope of salvation I warn you—” “George, for pity’s sake!” I shouted, throwing my arm about his shoulders, for his voice had risen to a pitch of excitement and fury that I feared must bring the whole place upon us. He caught himself up suddenly, stared at me blankly for a moment, then sank into a chair with a groan. As he did so I became aware of a sound that had been worrying my subconsciousness for an indefinite length of time, and realised what it was. Some one was knocking for admission. I crossed the room and opened the door. Miss Elizabeth stood there, red-faced and flustered, and behind her stood Mr. Cresson Ingle, who looked dubiously amused. “Ah—come in,” I said awkwardly. “George is here. Let me present Professor Keredec—” “‘George is here!’” echoed Miss Elizabeth, interrupting, and paying no attention whatever to an agitated bow on the part of the professor. “I should say he WAS! They probably know THAT all the way to Trouville!” “We were discussing—” I began. “Ah, I know what you were discussing,” she said impatiently. “Come in, Cresson.” She turned to Mr. Ingle, who was obviously reluctant. “It is a family matter, and you’ll have to go through with it now.” “That reminds me,” I said. “May I offer—” “Not now!” Miss Elizabeth cut short a rather embarrassed handshake which her betrothed and I were exchanging. “I’m in a very nervous and distressed state of mind, as I suppose we all are, for that matter. This morning I learned the true situation over here; and I’m afraid Louise has heard; at least she’s not at Quesnay. I got into a panic for fear she had come here, but thank heaven she does not seem to—Good gracious! What’s THAT?” It was the discordant voice of Mariana la Mursiana, crackling in strident protest. My door was still open; I turned to look and saw her, hot-faced, tousle-haired, insufficiently wrapped, striving to ascend the gallery steps, but valiantly opposed by Madame Brossard, who stood in the way. “But NO, madame,” insisted Madame Brossard, excited but darkly determined. “You cannot ascend. There is nothing on the upper floor of this wing except the apartment of Professor Keredec.” “Name of a dog!” shrilled the other. “It is my husband’s apartment, I tell you. Il y a une femme avec lui!” “It is Madame Harman who is there,” said Keredec hoarsely in my ear. “I came away and left them together.” “Come,” I said, and, letting the others think what they would, sprang across the veranda, the professor beside me, and ran toward the two women who were beginning to struggle with more than their tongues. I leaped by them and up the steps, but Keredec thrust himself between our hostess and her opponent, planting his great bulk on the lowest step. Glancing hurriedly over my shoulder, I saw the Spanish woman strike him furiously upon the breast with both hands, but I knew she would never pass him. I entered the salon of the “Grande Suite,” and closed the door quickly behind me. Louise Harman was standing at the other end of the room; she wore the pretty dress of white and lilac and the white hat. She looked cool and beautiful and good, and there were tears in her eyes. To come into this quiet chamber and see her so, after the hot sunshine and tawdry scene below, was like leaving the shouting market-place for a shadowy chapel. Her husband was kneeling beside her; he held one of her hands in both his, her other rested upon his head; and something in their attitudes made me know I had come in upon their leave-taking. But from the face he lifted toward her all trace of his tragedy had passed: the wonder and worship written there left no room for anything else. “Mrs. Harman—” I began. “Yes?” she said. “I am coming.” “But I don’t want you to. I’ve come for fear you would, and you—you must not,” I stammered. “You must wait.” “Why?” “It’s necessary,” I floundered. “There is a scene—” “I know,” she said quietly. “THAT must be, of course.” Harman rose, and she took both his hands, holding them against her breast. “My dear,” she said gently,—“my dearest, you must stay. Will you promise not to pass that door, even, until you have word from me again?” “Yes,” he answered huskily, “if you’ll promise it SHALL come—some day?” “It shall, indeed. Be sure of it.” I had turned away, but I heard the ghost of his voice whispering “good-bye.” Then she was beside me and opening the door. I tried to stay her. “Mrs. Harman,” I urged, “I earnestly beg you—” “No,” she answered, “this is better.” She stepped out upon the gallery; I followed, and she closed the door. Upon the veranda of my pavilion were my visitors from Quesnay, staring up at us apprehensively; Madame Brossard and Keredec still held the foot of the steps, but la Mursiana had abandoned the siege, and, accompanied by Mr. Percy and Rameau, the black-bearded notary, who had joined her, was crossing the garden toward her own apartment. At the sound of the closing door, she glanced over her shoulder, sent forth a scream, and, whirling about, ran viciously for the steps, where she was again blocked by the indomitable Keredec. “Ah, you foolish woman, I know who you are,” she cried, stepping back from him to shake a menacing hand at the quiet lady by my side. “You want to get yourself into trouble! That man in the room up there has been my husband these two years and more.” “No, madame,” said Louise Harman, “you are mistaken; he is my husband.” “But you divorced him,” vociferated the other wildly. “You divorced him in America!” “No. You are mistaken,” the quiet voice replied. “The suit was withdrawn. He is still my husband.” I heard the professor’s groan of despair, but it was drowned in the wild shriek of Mariana. “WHAT? You tell ME that? Ah, the miserable! If what you say is true, he shall pay bitterly! He shall wish that he had died by fire! What! You think he can marry ME, break my leg so that I cannot dance again, ruin my career, and then go away with a pretty woman like you and be happy? Aha, there are prisons in France for people who marry two like that; I do not know what they do in YOUR barbaric country, but they are decent people over here and they punish. He shall pay for it in suffering—” her voice rose to an incredible and unbearable shriek—“and you, YOU shall pay, too! You can’t come stealing honest women’s husbands like that. You shall PAY!” I saw George Ward come running forward with his hand upraised in a gesture of passionate warning, for Mrs. Harman, unnoticed by me—I was watching the Spanish woman—had descended the steps and had passed Keredec, walking straight to Mariana. I leaped down after her, my heart in my throat, fearing a thousand things. “You must not talk like that,” she said, not lifting her voice—yet every one in the courtyard heard her distinctly. “You can do neither of us any harm in the world.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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