Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “They?” I asked.

  “Oh, Elizabeth and her brother. They’ve been at her all afternoon — off and on.”

  “To do what?”

  “To ‘save herself,’ so they call it. They’re insisting that she must not see her poor husband again. They’re DETERMINED she sha’n’t.”

  “But George wouldn’t worry her,” I objected.

  “Oh, wouldn’t he?” The girl laughed sadly. “I don’t suppose he could help it, he’s in such a state himself, but between him and Elizabeth it’s hard to see how poor Mrs. Harman lived through the day.”

  “Well,” I said slowly, “I don’t see that they’re not right. She ought to be kept out of all this as much as possible; and if her husband has to go through a trial—”

  “I want you to tell me something,” Miss Elliott interrupted. “How much do you like Mr. Ward?”

  “He’s an old friend. I suppose I like my old friends in about the same way that other people like theirs.”

  “How much do you like Mr. Saffren — I mean Mr. Harman?”

  “Oh, THAT!” I groaned. “If I could still call him ‘Oliver Saffren,’ if I could still think of him as ‘Oliver Saffren,’ it would be easy to answer. I never was so ‘drawn’ to a man in my life before. But when I think of him as Larrabee Harman, I am full of misgivings.”

  “Louise isn’t,” she put in eagerly, and with something oddly like the manner of argument. “His wife isn’t!”

  “Oh, I know. Perhaps one reason is that she never saw him at quite his worst. I did. I had only two glimpses of him — of the briefest — but they inspired me with such a depth of dislike that I can’t tell you how painful it was to discover that ‘Oliver Saffren’ — this strange, pathetic, attractive FRIEND of mine — is the same man.”

  “Oh, but he isn’t!” she exclaimed quickly.

  “Keredec says he is,” I laughed helplessly.

  “So does Louise,” returned Miss Elliott, disdaining consistency in her eagerness. “And she’s right — and she cares more for him than she ever did!”

  “I suppose she does.”

  “Are you—” the girl began, then stopped for a moment, looking at me steadily. “Aren’t you a little in love with her?”

  “Yes,” I answered honestly. “Aren’t you?”

  “THAT’S what I wanted to know!” she said; and as she turned a page in the sketch-book for the benefit of Mr. Percy, I saw that her hand had begun to tremble.

  “Why?” I asked, leaning toward her across the table.

  “Because, if she were involved in some undertaking — something that, if it went wrong, would endanger her happiness and, I think, even her life — for it might actually kill her if she failed, and brought on a worse catastrophe—”

  “Yes?” I said anxiously, as she paused again.

  “You’d help her?” she said.

  “I would indeed,” I assented earnestly. “I told her once I’d do anything in the world for her.”

  “Even if it involved something that George Ward might never forgive you for?”

  “I said, ‘anything in the world,’” I returned, perhaps a little huskily. “I meant all of that. If there is anything she wants me to do, I shall do it.”

  She gave a low cry of triumph, but immediately checked it. Then she leaned far over the table, her face close above the book, and, tracing the outline of an uncertain lily with her small, brown-gloved forefinger, as though she were consulting me on the drawing, “I wasn’t afraid to come through the woods alone,” she said, in a very low voice, “because I wasn’t alone. Louise came with me.”

  “What?” I gasped. “Where is she?”

  “At the Baudry cottage down the road. They won’t miss her at the chateau until morning; I locked her door on the outside, and if they go to bother her again — though I don’t think they will — they’ll believe she’s fastened it on the inside and is asleep. She managed to get a note to Keredec late this afternoon; it explained everything, and he had some trunks carried out the rear gate of the inn and carted over to Lisieux to be shipped to Paris from there. It is to be supposed — or hoped, at least — that this woman and her people will believe THAT means Professor Keredec and Mr. Harman will try to get to Paris in the same way.”

  “So,” I said, “that’s what Percy meant about the trunks. I didn’t understand.”

  “He’s on watch, you see,” she continued, turning a page to another drawing. “He means to sit up all night, or he wouldn’t have slept this afternoon. He’s not precisely the kind to be in the habit of afternoon naps — Mr. Percy!” She laughed nervously. “That’s why it’s almost absolutely necessary for us to have you. If we have — the thing is so simple that it’s certain.”

  “If you have me for what?” I asked.

  “If you’ll help” — and, as she looked up, her eyes, now very close to mine, were dazzling indeed— “I’ll adore you for ever and ever! Oh, MUCH longer than you’d like me to!”

  “You mean she’s going to—”

  “I mean that she’s going to run away with him again,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER XXII

  AT MIDNIGHT THERE was no mistaking the palpable uneasiness with which Mr. Percy, faithful sentry, regarded the behaviour of Miss Elliott and myself as we sat conversing upon the veranda of the pavilion. It was not fear for the security of his prisoner which troubled him, but the unseemliness of the young woman’s persistence in remaining to this hour under an espionage no more matronly than that of a sketch-book abandoned on the table when we had come out to the open. The youth had veiled his splendours with more splendour: a long overcoat of so glorious a plaid it paled the planets above us; and he wandered restlessly about the garden in this refulgence, glancing at us now and then with what, in spite of the insufficient revelation of the starlight, we both recognised as a chilling disapproval. The lights of the inn were all out; the courtyard was dark. The Spanish woman and Monsieur Rameau had made their appearance for a moment, half an hour earlier, to exchange a word with their fellow vigilant, and, soon after, the extinguishing of the lamps in their respective apartments denoted their retirement for the night. In the “Grande Suite” all had been dark and silent for an hour. About the whole place the only sign of life, aside from those signs furnished by our three selves, was a rhythmical sound from an open window near the kitchen, where incontrovertibly slumbered our maitre d’hotel after the cares of the day.

  Upon the occasion of our forest meeting Mr. Percy had signified his desire to hear some talk of Art. I think he had his fill to-night — and more; for that was the subject chosen by my dashing companion, and vivaciously exploited until our awaited hour was at hand. Heaven knows what nonsense I prattled, I do not; I do not think I knew at the time. I talked mechanically, trying hard not to betray my increasing excitement.

  Under cover of this traduction of the Muse I served, I kept going over and over the details of Louise Harman’s plan, as the girl beside me had outlined it, bending above the smudgy sketch-book. “To make them think the flight is for Paris,” she had urged, “to Paris by way of Lisieux. To make that man yonder believe that it is toward Lisieux, while they turn at the crossroads, and drive across the country to Trouville for the morning boat to Havre.”

  It was simple; that was its great virtue. If they were well started, they were safe; and well started meant only that Larrabee Harman should leave the inn without an alarm, for an alarm sounded too soon meant “racing and chasing on Canoby Lea,” before they could get out of the immediate neighbourhood. But with two hours’ start, and the pursuit spending most of its energy in the wrong direction — that is, toward Lisieux and Paris — they would be on the deck of the French-Canadian liner to-morrow noon, sailing out of the harbour of Le Havre, with nothing but the Atlantic Ocean between them and the St. Lawrence.

  I thought of the woman who dared this flight for her lover, of the woman who came full-armed between him and the world, a Valkyr winging down to bear him away to a heaven she w
ould make for him herself. Gentle as she was, there must have been a Valkyr in her somewhere, or she could not attempt this. She swept in, not only between him and the world, but between him and the destroying demons his own sins had raised to beset him. There, I thought, was a whole love; or there she was not only wife but mother to him.

  And I remembered the dream of her I had before I ever saw her, on that first night after I came down to Normandy, when Amedee’s talk of “Madame d’Armand” had brought her into my thoughts. I remembered that I had dreamed of finding her statue, but it was veiled and I could not uncover it. And to-night it seemed to me that the veil had lifted, and the statue was a figure of Mercy in the beautiful likeness of Louise Harman. Then Keredec was wrong, optimist as he was, since a will such as hers could save him she loved, even from his own acts.

  “And when you come to Monticelli’s first style—” Miss Elliott’s voice rose a little, and I caught the sound of a new thrill vibrating in it— “you find a hundred others of his epoch doing it quite as well, not a BIT of a bit less commonplace—”

  She broke off suddenly, and looking up, as I had fifty times in the last twenty minutes, I saw that a light shone from Keredec’s window.

  “I dare say they ARE commonplace,” I remarked, rising. “But now, if you will permit me, I’ll offer you my escort back to Quesnay.”

  I went into my room, put on my cap, lit a lantern, and returned with it to the veranda. “If you are ready?” I said.

  “Oh, quite,” she answered, and we crossed the garden as far as the steps.

  Mr. Percy signified his approval.

  “Gunna see the little lady home, are you?” he said graciously. “I was THINKIN’ it was about time, m’self!”

  The salon door of the “Grand Suite” opened, above me, and at the sound, the youth started, springing back to see what it portended, but I ran quickly up the steps. Keredec stood in the doorway, bare-headed and in his shirt-sleeves; in one hand he held a travelling-bag, which he immediately gave me, setting his other for a second upon my shoulder.

  “Thank you, my good, good friend,” he said with an emotion in his big voice which made me glad of what I was doing. He went back into the room, closing the door, and I descended the steps as rapidly as I had run up them. Without pausing, I started for the rear of the courtyard, Miss Elliott accompanying me.

  The sentry had watched these proceedings open-mouthed, more mystified than alarmed. “Luk here,” he said, “I want t’ know whut this means.”

  “Anything you choose to think it means,” I laughed, beginning to walk a little more rapidly. He glanced up at the windows of the “Grande Suite,” which were again dark, and began to follow us slowly. “What you gut in that grip?” he asked.

  “You don’t think we’re carrying off Mr. Harman?”

  “I reckon HE’S in his room all right,” said the youth grimly; “unless he’s FLEW out. But I want t’ know what you think y’re doin’?”

  “Just now,” I replied, “I’m opening this door.”

  This was a fact he could not question. We emerged at the foot of a lane behind the inn; it was long and narrow, bordered by stone walls, and at the other end debouched upon a road which passed the rear of the Baudry cottage.

  Miss Elliott took my arm, and we entered the lane.

  Mr. Percy paused undecidedly. “I want t’ know whut you think y’re doin’?” he repeated angrily, calling after us.

  “It’s very simple,” I called in turn. “Can’t I do an errand for a friend? Can’t I even carry his travelling-bag for him, without going into explanations to everybody I happen to meet? And,” I added, permitting some anxiety to be marked in my voice, “I think you may as well go back. We’re not going far enough to need a guard.”

  Mr. Percy allowed an oath to escape him, and we heard him muttering to himself. Then his foot-steps sounded behind us.

  “He’s coming!” Miss Elliott whispered, with nervous exultation, looking over her shoulder. “He’s going to follow.”

  “He was sure to,” said I.

  We trudged briskly on, followed at some fifty paces by the perturbed watchman. Presently I heard my companion utter a sigh so profound that it was a whispered moan.

  “What is it?” I murmured.

  “Oh, it’s the thought of Quesnay and to-morrow; facing them with THIS!” she quavered. “Louise has written a letter for me to give them, but I’ll have to tell them—”

  “Not alone,” I whispered. “I’ll be there when you come down from your room in the morning.”

  We were embarked upon a singular adventure, not unattended by a certain danger; we were tingling with a hundred apprehensions, occupied with the vital necessity of drawing the little spy after us — and that was a strange moment for a man (and an elderly painter-man of no mark, at that!) to hear himself called what I was called then, in a tremulous whisper close to my ear. Of course she has denied it since; nevertheless, she said it — twice, for I pretended not to hear her the first time. I made no answer, for something in the word she called me, and in her seeming to mean it, made me choke up so that I could not even whisper; but I made up my mind that, after THAT if this girl saw Mr. Earl Percy on his way back to the inn before she wished him to go, it would be because he had killed me.

  We were near the end of the lane when the neigh of a horse sounded sonorously from the road beyond.

  Mr. Percy came running up swiftly and darted by us.

  “Who’s that?” he called loudly. “Who’s that in the cart yonder?”

  I set my lantern on the ground close to the wall, and at the same moment a horse and cart drew up on the road at the end of the lane, showing against the starlight. It was Pere Baudry’s best horse, a stout gray, that would easily enough make Trouville by daylight. A woman’s figure and a man’s (the latter that of Pere Baudry himself) could be made out dimly on the seat of the cart.

  “Who is it, I say?” shouted our excited friend. “What kind of a game d’ye think y’re puttin’ up on me here?”

  He set his hand on the side of the cart and sprang upon the hub of the wheel. A glance at the occupants satisfied him.

  “Mrs. Harman!” he yelled. “Mrs. Harman!” He leaped down into the road. “I knowed I was a fool to come away without wakin’ up Rameau. But you haven’t beat us yet!”

  He drove back into the lane, but just inside its entrance I met him.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Back to the pigeon-house in a hurry. There’s devilment here, and I want Rameau. Git out o’ my way!”

  “You’re not going back,” said I.

  “The hell I ain’t!” said Mr. Percy. “I give ye two seconds t’ git out o’ my — TAKE YER HANDS OFFA ME!”

  I made sure of my grip, not upon the refulgent overcoat, for I feared he might slip out of that, but upon the collars of his coat and waistcoat, which I clenched together in my right hand. I knew that he was quick, and I suspected that he was “scientific,” but I did it before he had finished talking, and so made fast, with my mind and heart and soul set upon sticking to him.

  My suspicions as to his “science” were perfervidly justified. “You long-legged devil!” he yelled, and I instantly received a series of concussions upon the face and head which put me in supreme doubt of my surroundings, for I seemed to have plunged, eyes foremost, into the Milky Way. But I had my left arm around his neck, which probably saved me from a coup de grace, as he was forced to pommel me at half-length. Pommel it was; to use so gentle a word for what to me was crash, bang, smash, battle, murder, earthquake and tornado. I was conscious of some one screaming, and it seemed a consoling part of my delirium that the cheek of Miss Anne Elliott should be jammed tight against mine through one phase of the explosion. My arms were wrenched, my fingers twisted and tortured, and, when it was all too clear to me that I could not possibly bear one added iota of physical pain, the ingenious fiend began to kick my shins and knees with feet like crowbars.

  Conflict of any sort
was never my vocation. I had not been an accessory-during-the-fact to a fight since I passed the truculent age of fourteen; and it is a marvel that I was able to hang to that dynamic bundle of trained muscles — which defines Mr. Earl Percy well enough — for more than ten seconds. Yet I did hang to him, as Pere Baudry testifies, for a minute and a half, which seems no inconsiderable lapse of time to a person undergoing such experiences as were then afflicting me.

  It appeared to me that we were revolving in enormous circles in the ether, and I had long since given my last gasp, when there came a great roaring wind in my ears and a range of mountains toppled upon us both; we went to earth beneath it.

  “Ha! you must create violence, then?” roared the avalanche.

  And the voice was the voice of Keredec.

  Some one pulled me from underneath my struggling antagonist, and, the power of sight in a hazy, zigzagging fashion coming back to me, I perceived the figure of Miss Anne Elliott recumbent beside me, her arms about Mr. Percy’s prostrate body. The extraordinary girl had fastened upon him, too, though I had not known it, and she had gone to ground with us; but it is to be said for Mr. Earl Percy that no blow of his touched her, and she was not hurt. Even in the final extremities of temper, he had carefully discriminated in my favour.

  Mrs. Harman was bending over her, and, as the girl sprang up lightly, threw her arms about her. For my part, I rose more slowly, section by section, wondering why I did not fall apart; lips, nose, and cheeks bleeding, and I had a fear that I should need to be led like a blind man, through my eyelids swelling shut. That was something I earnestly desired should not happen; but whether it did, or did not — or if the heavens fell! — I meant to walk back to Quesnay with Anne Elliott that night, and, mangled, broken, or half-dead, presenting whatever appearance of the prize-ring or the abattoir that I might, I intended to take the same train for Paris on the morrow that she did.