Books: Jezebel

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"I don't care, David; I shall write to him, for all that."

"Why?"

"Because I like writing to him.

"What! whether he receives your letter or not?"

"Whether he receives it or not," she answered saucily, "I shall have the
pleasure of writing to him--that is all I want."

She covered four pages of note-paper, and insisted on posting them
herself.

The next morning Mr. Keller was able, with my help and Mr. Engelman's, to
get downstairs to the sitting-room. We were both with him, when Madame
Fontaine came in.

"Well," he asked, "have you brought it with you?"

She handed to him a sealed envelope, and then turned to explain herself
to me.

"The letter that you put on Mr. Keller's desk," she said pleasantly.
"This time, David, I act as my own postman--at Mr. Keller's request."

In her place, I should certainly have torn it up. To keep it, on the bare
chance of its proving to be of some use in the future, seemed to imply
either an excessive hopefulness or an extraordinary foresight, on the
widow's part. Without in the least comprehending my own state of mind, I
felt that she had, in some mysterious way, disappointed me by keeping
that letter. As a matter of course, I turned to leave the room, and Mr.
Engelman (from a similar motive of delicacy) followed me to the door. Mr.
Keller called us both back.

"Wait, if you please," he said, "until I have read it."

Madame Fontaine was looking out of the window. It was impossible for us
to discover whether she approved of our remaining in the room or not.

Mr. Keller read the closely written pages with the steadiest attention.
He signed to the widow to approach him, and took her hand when he had
arrived at the last words.

"Let me ask your pardon," he said, "in the presence of my partner and in
the presence of David Glenney, who took charge of your letter. Madame
Fontaine, I speak the plain truth, in the plainest words, when I tell you
that I am ashamed of myself."

She dropped on her knees before him, and entreated him to say no more.
Mr. Engelman looked at her, absorbed in admiration. Perhaps it was the
fault of my English education--I thought the widow's humility a little
overdone. What Mr. Keller's opinion might be, he kept to himself. He
merely insisted on her rising, and taking a chair by his side.

"To say that I believe every word of your letter," he resumed, "is only
to do you the justice which I have too long delayed. But there is one
passage which I must feel satisfied that I thoroughly understand, if you
will be pleased to give me the assurance of it with your own lips. Am I
right in concluding, from what is here written of your husband's
creditors, that his debts (which have now, in honor, become your debts)
have been all actually _paid_ to the last farthing?"

"To the last farthing!" Madame Fontaine answered, without a moment's
hesitation. "I can show you the receipts, sir, if you like."

"No, madam! I take your word for it--I require nothing more. Your title
to my heart-felt respect is now complete. The slanders which I have
disgraced myself by believing would never have found their way to my
credulity, if they had not first declared you to have ruined your husband
by your debts. I own that I have never been able to divest myself of my
inbred dislike and distrust of people who contract debts which they are
not able to pay. The light manner in which the world is apt to view the
relative positions of debtor and creditor is abhorrent to me. If I
promise to pay a man money, and fail to keep my promise, I am no better
than a liar and a cheat. That always has been, and always will be, _my_
view." He took her hand again as he made that strong declaration. "There
is another bond of sympathy between us," he said warmly; "you think as I
do."

Good Heavens, if Frau Meyer had told me the truth, what would happen when
Madame Fontaine discovered that her promissory note was in the hands of a
stranger--a man who would inexorably present it for payment on the day
when it fell due? I tried to persuade myself that Frau Meyer had _not_
told me the truth. Perhaps I might have succeeded--but for my remembrance
of the disreputable-looking stranger on the door-step, who had been so
curious to know if Madame Fontaine intended to leave her lodgings.

CHAPTER XXI

The next day, my calculation of possibilities in the matter of Fritz
turned out to be correct.

Returning to Main Street, after a short absence from the house, the door
was precipitately opened to me by Minna. Before she could say a word, her
face told me the joyful news. Before I could congratulate her, Fritz
himself burst headlong into the hall, and made one of his desperate
attempts at embracing me. This time I succeeded (being the shorter man of
the two) in slipping through his arms in the nick of time.

"Do you want to kiss _me,"_ I exclaimed, "when Minna is in the house!"

"I have been kissing Minna," Fritz answered with perfect gravity, until
we are both of us out of breath. "I look upon you as a sort of
safety-valve."

At this, Minna's charming face became eloquent in another way. I only
waited to ask for news of my aunt before I withdrew. Mrs. Wagner was
already on the road to Frankfort, following Fritz by easy stages.

"And where is Jack Straw?" I inquired.

"Traveling with her," said Fritz.

Having received this last extraordinary piece of intelligence, I put off
all explanations until a fitter opportunity, and left the lovers together
until dinner-time.

It was one of the last fine days of the autumn. The sunshine tempted me
to take a turn in Mr. Engelman's garden.

A shrubbery of evergreens divided the lawn near the house from the
flower-beds which occupied the further extremity of the plot of ground.
While I was on one side of the shrubbery, I heard the voices of Mr.
Keller and Madame Fontaine on the other side. Then, and then only, I
remembered that the doctor had suggested a little walking exercise for
the invalid, while the sun was at its warmest in the first hours of the
afternoon. Madame Fontaine was in attendance, in the absence of Mr.
Engelman, engaged in the duties of the office.

I had just turned back again towards the house, thinking it better not to
disturb them, when I heard my name on the widow's lips. Better men than
I, under stress of temptation, have been known to commit actions unworthy
of them. I was mean enough to listen; and I paid the proverbial penalty
for gratifying my curiosity--I heard no good of myself.

"You have honored me by asking my advice, sir," I heard Madame Fontaine
say. "With regard to young David Glenney, I can speak quite impartially.
In a few days more, if I can be of no further use to you, I shall have
left the house."

Mr. Keller interrupted her there.

"Pardon me, Madame Fontaine; I can't let you talk of leaving us. We are
without a housekeeper, as you know. You will confer a favor on me and on
Mr. Engelman, if you will kindly undertake the direction of our domestic
affairs--for the present, at least. Besides, your charming daughter is
the light of our household. What will Fritz say, if you take her away
just when he has come home? No! no! you and Minna must stay with us."

"You are only too good to me, sir! Perhaps I had better ascertain what
Mr. Engelman's wishes are, before we decide?"

Mr. Keller laughed--and, more extraordinary still, Mr. Keller made a
little joke.

"My dear madam, if you don't know what Mr. Engelman's wishes are likely
to be, without asking him, you are the most unobservant lady that ever
lived! Speak to him, by all means, if you think it formally
necessary--and let us return to the question of taking David Glenney into
our office here. A letter which he has lately received from Mrs. Wagner
expresses no intention of recalling him to London--and he has managed so
cleverly in a business matter which I confided to him, that he would
really be an acquisition to us. Besides (until the marriage takes place),
he would be a companion for Fritz."

"That is exactly where I feel a difficulty," Madame Fontaine replied. "To
my mind, sir, Mr. David is not at all a desirable companion for your son.
The admirable candor and simplicity of Fritz's disposition might suffer
by association with a person of Mr. David's very peculiar character."

"May I ask, Madame Fontaine, in what you think his character peculiar?"

"I will endeavor to express what I feel, sir. You have spoken of his
cleverness. I venture to say that he is _too_ clever And I have observed
that he is--for a young man--far too easily moved to suspect others. Do I
make myself understood?"

"Perfectly. Pray go on."

"I find, Mr. Keller, that there is something of the Jesuit about our
young friend. He has a way of refining on trifles, and seeing under the
surface, where nothing is to be seen. Don't attach too much importance to
what I say! It is quite likely that I am influenced by the popular
prejudice against 'old heads on young shoulders.' At the same time, I
confess I wouldn't keep him here, if I were in your place. Shall we move
a little further on?"

Madame Fontaine was, I daresay, perfectly right in her estimate of me.
Looking back at the pages of this narrative, I discover some places in
which I certainly appear to justify her opinion. I even justified it at
the time. Before she and Mr. Keller were out of my hearing, I began to
see "under the surface," and "to refine" on what she had said.

Was it Jesuitical to doubt the disinterestedness of her advice? I did
doubt it. Was it Jesuitical to suspect that she privately distrusted me,
and had reasons of her own for keeping me out of her way, at the safe
distance of London? I did suspect it.

And yet she was such a good Christian! And yet she had so nobly and so
undeniably saved Mr. Keller's life! What right had I to impute
self-seeking motives to such a woman as this? Mean! mean! there was no
excuse for me.

I turned back to the house, with my head feeling very old on my young
shoulders.

Madame Fontaine's manner to me was so charming, when we all met at the
dinner-table, that I fell into a condition of remorseful silence.
Fortunately, Fritz took most of the talking on himself, and the general
attention was diverted from me. His high spirits, his boisterous
nonsense, his contempt for all lawful forms and ceremonies which placed
impediments in the way of his speedy marriage, were amusingly contrasted
by Mr. Engelman's courteous simplicity in trying to argue the question
seriously with his reckless young friend.

"Don't talk to me about the customary delays and the parson's duty!"
cried Fritz. "Tell me this: does he do his duty without being paid for
it?"

"We must all live," pleaded good Mr. Engelman; "the parson must pay the
butcher and the baker, like the rest of us."

"That's shirking the question, my dear sir! Will the parson marry Minna
and me, without being paid for it?"

"In all civilized countries, Fritz, there are fees for the performance of
the marriage ceremony."

"Very well. Now follow my train of reasoning, Mr. Engelman! On your own
showing, the whole affair is a matter of money. The parson gets his fee
for making Minna my wife, after the customary delays."

There Minna modestly interposed. "Why do you object to the customary
delays, dear Fritz?"

"I'll tell you, my angel, when we are married. In the meantime, I resume
my train of reasoning, and I entreat Mr. Engelman not to forget that this
is a matter of money. Make it worth the parson's while to marry us,
_without_ the customary delays. Double his fee, treble his fee--give him
ten times his fee. It's merely a question of what his reverence can
resist. My father is a rich man. Favor me with a blank cheque, papa--and
I will make Minna Mrs. Keller before the end of the week!"

The father, hitherto content to listen and be amused, checked the son's
flow of nonsense at this point.

"There is a time for everything, Fritz," he said. "We have had laughing
enough. When you talk of your marriage, I am sorry to observe that you
entirely pass over the consideration which is due to your father's only
surviving relative."

Madame Fontaine laid down her knife and fork as if her dinner had come to
an end. The sudden appearance in the conversation of the "surviving
relative," had evidently taken her by surprise. Mr. Keller, observing
her, turned away from his son, and addressed himself exclusively to the
widow when he spoke next.

"I referred, Madame Fontaine, to my elder sister," he said. "She and I
are the sole survivors of a large family."

"Does the lady live in this city, sir?" the widow inquired.

"No, she still lives in our birthplace--Munich."

"May I ask another question?"

"As many questions, dear madam, as you like."

"Is your sister married?"

"My sister has never been married."

"Not for want of suitors," said courteous Mr. Engelman. "A most majestic
person. Witty and accomplished. Possessed of an enviable little fortune,
entirely at her own disposal."

Mr. Keller gently reproved this latter allusion to the question of money.

"My good friend, Madame Fontaine has a mind above all mercenary
considerations. My sister's place in her esteem and regard will not be
influenced by my sister's fortune, when they meet (as I hope they will
meet) at Fritz's marriage."

At this, Fritz burst into the conversation in his usual headlong way.

"Oh, dear me, papa, have some consideration for us! If we wait for my
aunt, we shall never be married on this side of eternity."

"Fritz!"

"Don't be angry, sir, I meant no harm. I was thinking of my aunt's
asthma. At her age, she will never take the long journey from Munich to
Frankfort. Permit me to offer a suggestion. Let us be married first, and
then pay her a visit in the honeymoon."

Mr. Keller passed his son's suggestion over without notice, and addressed
himself once more to Madame Fontaine.

"I propose writing to my sister in a day or two," he resumed, "to inform
her of the contemplated marriage. She already knows your name through Mr.
Engelman, who kindly wrote to allay her anxiety about my illness."

"And to tell her," Mr. Engelman interposed, "to whose devotion he owes
his recovery."

The widow received this tribute with eyes fixed modestly on her plate.
Her black dress, rising and falling over her bosom, betrayed an
agitation, which her enemies at Wurzburg might have attributed to the
discovery of the rich sister at Munich. Mr. Keller went on--

"I am sure I may trust to your womanly sympathies to understand the
affection which binds me to my last living relative. My sister's presence
at the marriage will be an inexpressible comfort and happiness to me. In
spite of what my son has said (you are sadly given to talking at random,
Fritz), I believe she will not shrink from the journey to Frankfort, if
we only make it easier to her by consulting her health and convenience.
Our young people have all their lives before them--our young people can
wait."

"Certainly, sir."

She gave that short answer very quietly, with her eyes still on her
plate. It was impossible to discover in what frame of mind she viewed the
prospect of delay, involved in Mr. Keller's consideration for his sister.
For the moment, Fritz was simply confounded. He looked at
Minna--recovered himself--and favored his father with another suggestion.

"I have got it now!" he exclaimed. "Why not spare my aunt the fatigue of
the journey? Let us all start for Bavaria to--morrow, and have the
marriage at Munich!"

"And leave the business at Frankfort to take care of itself, at the
busiest time of the year!" his father added ironically. "When you open
your mouth again, Fritz, put food and drink into it--and confine yourself
to that."

With those words the question of the marriage was closed for the time.

When dinner was over, Mr. Keller retired, to take some rest in his own
room. Fritz and his sweetheart left the house together, on an errand in
which they were both equally interested--the purchase of the ring which
was to typify Minna's engagement. Left alone with Mr. Engelman and the
widow, I felt that I might be an obstacle to confidential conversation,
and withdrew to the office. Though not regularly employed as one of the
clerks, I had been admitted to serve as a volunteer, since my return from
Hanau. In this way, I improved my experience of the details of our
business, and I made some small return for the hospitable welcome which I
had received from the two partners.

Half an hour or more had passed, when some papers arrived from the bank,
which required the signature of the firm. Mr. Engelman being still
absent, the head-clerk, at my suggestion, proceeded to the dining-room
with the papers in his charge.

He came back again immediately, looking very much alarmed.

"Pray go into the dining-room!" he said to me. "I am afraid something is
seriously wrong with Mr. Engelman.

"Do you mean that he is ill?" I asked.

"I can hardly say. His arms are stretched out on the table, and his face
is hidden on them. He paid no attention to me. I am almost afraid he was
crying."

Crying? I had left him in excellent spirits, casting glances of the
tenderest admiration at Madame Fontaine. Without waiting to hear more, I
ran to the dining-room.

He was alone--in the position described by the clerk--and, poor old man,
he was indeed weeping bitterly! I put my hand with all possible
gentleness on his shoulder, and said, with the tenderness that I really
felt for him: "Dear Mr. Engelman, what has happened to distress you?"

At the sound of my voice he looked up, and caught me fervently by the
hand.

"Stay here with me a little while, David," he said. "I have got my
death-blow."

I sat down by him directly. "Try and tell me what has happened," I went
on. "I left you here with Madame Fontaine----"

His tears suddenly ceased; his hand closed convulsively on mine. "Don't
speak of her," he cried, with an outburst of anger. "You were right about
her, David. She is a false woman." As the words passed his lips, he
changed again. His voice faltered; he seemed to be frightened by his own
violent language. "Oh, what am I talking about! what right have I to say
that of her! I am a brute--I am reviling the best of women. It was all my
fault, David--I have acted like a madman, like a fool. Oh, my boy! my
boy!--would you believe it?--I asked her to marry me!"

It is needless to say that I wanted no further explanation. "Did she
encourage you to ask her?" I inquired.

"I thought she did, David--I thought I would be clever and seize the
opportunity. She said she wanted to consult me. She said: 'Mr. Keller has
asked me to stay here, and keep house for you; I have not given my answer
yet, I have waited to know if you approved it.' Upon that, I said the
rash words. I asked her to be more than our housekeeper--to be my wife. I
am naturally stupid," said the poor simple gentleman; "whenever I try to
do anything clever I always fail. She was very forbearing with me at
first; she said No, but she said it considerately, as if she felt for me.
I presumed on her kindness, like a fool; I couldn't help it, David, I was
so fond of her. I pressed her to say why she refused me. I was mad enough
to ask if there was some other man whom she preferred. Oh, she said some
hard things to me in her anger! And, worse still, when I went down on my
knees to her, she said, 'Get up, you old fool!'--and laughed--and left
me. Take me away somewhere, David; I am too old to get over it, if I stay
here. I can never see her or speak to her again. Take me to England with
you--and, oh, don't tell Keller!"

He burst into another fit of tears. It was dreadful to see and hear him.

I tried to think of some consoling words. Before I could give expression
to my thought, the door of the room was gently opened; and Madame
Fontaine herself stood before us. Her eyes looked at Mr. Engelman from
under their heavy lids, with a quiet and scornful compassion. The poor
wretch was of no further use to her. Quite needless to be on her best
behavior with him now!

"There is not the least occasion, sir, to disturb yourself," she said.
"It is _my_ duty to leave the house--and I will do it."

Without waiting to be answered, she turned back to the door, and left us.

CHAPTER XXII

"For heaven's sake, sir, allow me to go!"

"On no account, Madame Fontaine. If you won't remain here, in justice to
yourself, remain as a favor to me."

When I opened my bedroom door the next morning, the widow and Mr. Keller
were on the landing outside, and those were the words exchanged between
them.

Mr. Keller approached, and spoke to me.

"What do you know, David, about the disappearance of Mr. Engelman?"

"Disappearance?" I repeated. "I was with him yesterday evening--and I
bade him good-night in his own room."

"He must have left the house before the servants were up this morning,"
said Mr. Keller. "Read that."

He handed me a morsel of paper with writing on it in pencil:--

"Forgive me, dear friend and partner, for leaving you without saying
good-bye; also for burdening you with the direction of business, before
you are perhaps strong enough to accept the charge. My mind is in such a
state of confusion that I should be worse than useless in the office.
While I write this, my poor weak head burns as if there was fire in it. I
cannot face _her,_ I cannot face _you_--I must go, before I lose all
control over myself. Don't attempt to trace me. If change and absence
restore me to myself I will return. If not, a man at my age and in my
state of mind is willing to die. Please tell Madame Fontaine that I ask
her pardon with all my heart. Good-bye--and God bless and prosper you."

I was unaffectedly distressed. There was something terrible in this
sudden break-up of poor Engelman's harmless life--something cruel and
shocking in the passion of love fixing its relentless hold on an innocent
old man, fast nearing the end of his days. There are hundreds of examples
of this deplorable anomaly in real life; and yet, when we meet with it in
our own experience, we are always taken by surprise, and always ready to
express doubt or derision when we hear of it in the experience of others.

Madame Fontaine behaved admirably. She sat down on the window-seat at the
end of the landing, and wrung her hands with a gesture of despair.

"Oh!" she said, "if he had asked me for anything else! If I could have
made any other sacrifice to him! God knows I never dreamed of it; I never
gave him the smallest encouragement. We might have all been so happy
together here--and I, who would have gone to the world's end to serve Mr.
Keller and Mr. Engelman, I am the unhappy creature who has broken up the
household!"

Mr. Keller was deeply affected. He sat down on the window-seat by Madame
Fontaine.

"My dear, dear lady," he said, "you are entirely blameless in this
matter. Even my unfortunate partner feels it, and asks your pardon. If
inquiries can discover him, they shall be set on foot immediately. In the
meantime, let me entreat you to compose yourself. Engelman has perhaps
done wisely, to leave us for a time. He will get over his delusion, and
all may be well yet."

I went downstairs, not caring to hear more. All my sympathies, I confess,
were with Mr. Engelman--though he _was_ a fat simple old man. Mr. Keller
seemed to me (here is more of the "old head on young shoulders!") to have
gone from one extreme to the other. He had begun by treating the widow
with unbecoming injustice; and he was now flattering her with
unreasonable partiality.

For the next few days there was tranquillity, if not happiness, in the
house. Mr. Keller wrote to his sister in Munich, inviting her to mention
the earliest date at which it might suit her convenience to be present at
the marriage of his son. Madame Fontaine assumed the regular management
of our domestic affairs. Fritz and Minna found sufficient attraction in
each other's society. The new week was just beginning, and our inquiries
after Mr. Engelman had thus far led to no result--when I received a
letter containing news of the fugitive, confided to me under strict
reserve.

The writer of the letter proved to be a married younger brother of Mr.
Engelman, residing at Bingen, on the Rhine.

"I write to you, dear sir, at my brother's request. My wife and I are
doing all that we can to relieve and comfort him, but his mind has not
yet sufficiently recovered to enable him to write to you himself. He
desires to thank you heartily for your sympathy, at the most trying
period of his life; and he trusts to your kindness to let him hear, from
time to time, of Mr. Keller's progress towards recovery, and of the
well-being of the business. In addressing your letters to me at Bingen,
you will be pleased to consider the information of my brother's
whereabouts herein afforded to you as strictly confidential, until you
hear from me to the contrary. In his present frame of mind, it would be
in the last degree painful to him to be made the subject of inquiries,
remonstrances, or entreaties to return."

The arrival of this sad news proved to be not the only noteworthy event
of the day. While I was still thinking of poor Mr. Engelman, Fritz came
into the office with his hat in his hand.

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