Books: Jezebel

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My aunt looked astonished.

"Both the partners ill!" she exclaimed. "I remember Mr. Engelman, in the
days when I was first married. He used to boast of never having had a
day's illness in his life. Not at all a clever man--but good as gold, and
a far more sensitive person than most people gave him credit for being.
He promised to be fat as years grew on him. Has he kept his promise? What
is the matter with him?"

I hesitated. My aunt eyed me sharply, and put another question before I
had quite made up my mind what to say.

"If you can't tell me what is the matter with him, can you tell me where
he is? I may want to write to him."

I hesitated again. Mr. Engelman's address had been confidentially
communicated to me, for reasons which I was bound to respect. "I am
afraid I can't answer that question either," I said awkwardly enough.

"Good heavens!" cried my aunt, "what does all this mystery mean? Has Mr.
Engelman killed a man in a duel? or run away with an opera-dancer? or
squandered the whole profits of the business at the gambling-table? or
what? As she put these bold views of the case, we heard voices outside,
followed by a gentle knock at the door. Minna entered the room with a
message.

"Mamma has sent me, Mrs. Wagner, to ask at what time you would like to
dine."

"My dear, I am much obliged to your mother. I have only just breakfasted,
and I can wait quite well till supper-time comes. Stop a minute! Here is
my nephew driving me to the utmost verge of human endurance, by making a
mystery of Mr. Engelman's absence from Frankfort. Should I be very
indiscreet if I asked--Good gracious, how the girl blushes! You are
evidently in the secret too, Miss Minna. _Is_ it an opera-dancer? Leave
us together, David."

This made Minna's position simply unendurable. She looked at me
appealingly. I did at last, what I ought to have done at first--I spoke
out plainly.

"The fact is, aunt," I said, "poor Mr. Engelman has left us for awhile,
sadly mortified and distressed. He began by admiring Madame Fontaine; and
he ended in making her an offer of marriage."

"Mamma was indeed truly sorry for him," Minna added; "but she had no
other alternative than to refuse him, of course."

"Upon my word, child, I see no 'of course' in the matter!" my aunt
answered sharply.

Minna was shocked. "Oh, Mrs. Wagner! Mr. Engelman is more than twenty
years older than mamma--and (I am sure I pity him, poor man)--and _so_
fat!"

"Fat is a matter of taste," my aunt remarked, more and more resolute in
taking Mr. Engelman's part. "And as for his being twenty years older than
your mother, I can tell you, young lady, that my dear lost husband was
twenty years my senior when he married me--and a happier couple never
lived. I know more of the world than you do; and I say Madame Fontaine
has made a great mistake. She has thrown away an excellent position in
life, and has pained and humiliated one of the kindest-hearted men
living. No! no! I am not going to argue the matter with you now; I'll
wait till you are married to Fritz. But I own I should like to speak to
your mother about it. Ask her to favor me by stepping this way for a few
minutes, when she has nothing to do."

Minna seemed to think this rather a high-handed method of proceeding, and
entered a modest protest accordingly.

"Mamma is a very sensitive person," she began with dignity.

My aunt stopped her with a pat on the cheek.

"Good child! I like you for taking your mother's part. Mamma has another
merit, my dear. She is old enough to understand me better than you do. Go
and fetch her."

Minna left us, with her pretty little head carried high in the air. "Mrs.
Wagner is a person entirely without sentiment!" she indignantly whispered
to me in passing, when I opened the door for her.

"I declare that girl is absolute perfection!" my aunt exclaimed with
enthusiasm. "The one thing she wanted, as I thought, was spirit--and I
find she has got it. Ah! she will take Fritz in hand, and make something
of him. He is one of the many men who absolutely need being henpecked. I
prophesy confidently--their marriage will be a happy one."

"I don't doubt it, aunt. But tell me, what are you going to say to Madame
Fontaine?"

"It depends on circumstances. I must know first if Mr. Engelman has
really set his heart on the woman with the snaky movements and the sleepy
eyes. Can you certify to that?"

"Positively. Her refusal has completely crushed him."

"Very well. Then I mean to make Madame Fontaine marry him--always
supposing there is no other man in his way."

"My dear aunt, how you talk! At Madame Fontaine's age! With a grown-up
daughter!"

"My dear nephew, you know absolutely nothing about women. Counting by
years, I grant you they grow old. Counting by sensations, they remain
young to the end of their days. Take a word of advice from me. The
evidence of their gray hair may look indisputable; the evidence of their
grown-up children may look indisputable. Don't believe it! There is but
one period in the women's lives when you may feel quite certain that they
have definitely given the men their dismissal--the period when they are
put in their coffins. Hush! What's that outside? When there is a noisy
silk dress and a silent foot on the stairs, in this house, I know already
what it means. Be off with you!"

She was quite right. Madame Fontaine entered, as I rose to leave the
room.

The widow showed none of her daughter's petulance. She was sweet and
patient; she saluted Mrs. Wagner with a sad smile which seemed to say,
"Outrage my most sacred feelings, dear madam; they are entirely at your
disposal." If I had believed that my aunt had the smallest chance of
carrying her point, I should have felt far from easy about Mr. Engelman's
prospects. As it was, I left the two ladies to their fruitless interview,
and returned composedly to my work.

CHAPTER XXV

When supper was announced, I went upstairs again to show my aunt the way
to the room in which we took our meals.

"Well?" I said.

"Well," she answered coolly, "Madame Fontaine has promised to reconsider
it."

I confess I was staggered. By what possible motives could the widow have
been animated? Even Mr. Engelman's passive assistance was now of no
further importance to her. She had gained Mr. Keller's confidence; her
daughter's marriage was assured; her employment in the house offered her
a liberal salary, a respectable position, and a comfortable home. Why
should she consent to reconsider the question of marrying a man, in whom
she could not be said to feel any sort of true interest, in any possible
acceptation of the words? I began to think that my aunt was right, and
that I really did know absolutely nothing about women.

At supper Madame Fontaine and her daughter were both unusually silent.
Open-hearted Minna was not capable of concealing that her mother's
concession had been made known to her in some way, and that the
disclosure had disagreeably surprised her. However, there was no want of
gaiety at the table--thanks to my aunt, and to her faithful attendant.

Jack Straw followed us into the room, without waiting to be invited, and
placed himself, to Joseph's disgust, behind Mrs. Wagner's chair.

"Nobody waits on Mistress at table," he explained, "but me. Sometimes she
gives me a bit or a drink over her shoulder. Very little drink--just a
sip, and no more. I quite approve of only a sip myself. Oh, I know how to
behave. None of your wine-merchant's fire in _my_ head; no Bedlam
breaking loose again. Make your minds easy. There are no cooler brains
among you than mine." At this, Fritz burst into one of his explosions of
laughter. Jack appealed to Fritz's father, with unruffled gravity. "Your
son, I believe, sir? Ha! what a blessing it is there's plenty of room for
improvement in that young man. I only throw out a remark. If I was
afflicted with a son myself, I think I should prefer David."

This specimen of Jack's method of asserting himself, and other similar
outbreaks which Fritz and I mischievously encouraged, failed apparently
to afford any amusement to Madame Fontaine. Once she roused herself to
ask Mr. Keller if his sister had written to him from Munich. Hearing that
no reply had been received, she relapsed into silence. The old excuse of
a nervous headache was repeated, when Mr. Keller and my aunt politely
inquired if anything was amiss.

When the letters were delivered the next morning, two among them were not
connected with the customary business of the office. One (with the
postmark of Bingen) was for me. And one (with the postmark of Wurzburg)
was for Madame Fontaine. I sent it upstairs to her immediately.

When I opened my own letter, I found sad news of poor Mr. Engelman. Time
and change had failed to improve his spirits. He complained of a feeling
of fullness and oppression in his head, and of hissing noises in his
ears, which were an almost constant annoyance to him. On two occasions he
had been cupped, and had derived no more than a temporary benefit from
the employment of that remedy. His doctor recommended strict attention to
diet, and regular exercise. He submitted willingly to the severest rules
at table--but there was no rousing him to exert himself in any way. For
hours together, he would sit silent in one place, half sleeping, half
waking; noticing no one, and caring for nothing but to get to his bed as
soon as possible.

This statement of the case seemed to me to suggest very grave
considerations. I could no longer hesitate to inform Mr. Keller that I
had received intelligence of his absent partner, and to place my letter
in his hands.

Whatever little disagreements there had been between them were instantly
forgotten. I had never before seen Mr. Keller so distressed and so little
master of himself.

"I must go to Engelman directly," he said.

I ventured to submit that there were two serious objections to his doing
this: In the first place, his presence in the office was absolutely
necessary. In the second place, his sudden appearance at Bingen would
prove to be a serious, perhaps a fatal, shock to his old friend.

"What is to be done, then?" he exclaimed.

"I think my aunt may be of some use, sir, in this emergency."

"Your aunt? How can she help us?"

I informed him of my aunt's project; and I added that Madame Fontaine had
not positively said No. He listened without conviction, frowning and
shaking his head.

"Mrs. Wagner is a very impetuous person," he said. "She doesn't
understand a complex nature like Madame Fontaine's."

"At least I may show my aunt the letter from Bingen, sir?"

"Yes. It can do no harm, if it does no good."

On my way to my aunt's room, I encountered Minna on the stairs. She was
crying. I naturally asked what was the matter.

"Don't stop me!" was the only answer I received.

"But where are you going, Minna?"

"I am going to Fritz, to be comforted."

"Has anybody behaved harshly to you?"

"Yes, mamma has behaved harshly to me. For the first time in my life,"
said the spoilt child, with a strong sense of injury, "she has locked the
door of her room, and refused to let me in."

"But why?"

"How can I tell? I believe it has something to do with that horrid man I
told you of. You sent a letter upstairs this morning. I met Joseph on the
landing, and took the letter to her myself. Why shouldn't I look at the
postmark? Where was the harm in saying to her, 'A letter, mamma, from
Wurzburg'? She looked at me as if I had mortally offended her--and
pointed to the door, and locked herself in. I have knocked twice, and
asked her to forgive me. Not a word of answer either time! I consider
myself insulted. Let me go to Fritz."

I made no attempt to detain her. She had set those every-ready suspicions
of mine at work again.

Was the letter which I had sent upstairs a reply to the letter which
Minna had seen her mother writing? Was the widow now informed that the
senile old admirer who had advanced the money to pay her creditors had
been found dead in his bed? and that her promissory note had passed into
the possession of the heir-at-law? If this was the right reading of the
riddle, no wonder she had sent her daughter out of the room--no wonder
she had locked her door!

My aunt wasted no time in expressions of grief and surprise, when she was
informed of Mr. Engelman's state of health. "Send the widow here
directly," she said. "If there is anything like a true heart under that
splendid silk dress of hers, I shall write and relieve poor Engelman by
to-night's post."

To confide my private surmises, even to my aunt, would have been an act
of inexcusable imprudence, to say the least of it. I could only reply
that Madame Fontaine was not very well, and was (as I had heard from
Minna) shut up in the retirement of her own room.

The resolute little woman got on her feet instantly. "Show me where she
is, David--and leave the rest to me."

I led her to the door, and was dismissed with these words--"Go and wait
in my room till I come back to you." As I retired, I heard a smart knock,
and my aunt's voice announcing herself outside--"Mrs. Wagner, ma'am, with
something serious to say to you." The reply was inaudible. Not so my
aunt's rejoinder: "Oh, very well! Just read that letter, will you? I'll
push it under the door, and wait for an answer." I lingered for a minute
longer--and heard the door opened and closed again.

In little more than half an hour, my aunt returned. She looked serious
and thoughtful. I at once anticipated that she had failed. Her first
words informed me that I was wrong.

"I've done it," she said. "I am to write to Engelman to-night; and I have
the widow's permission to tell him that she regrets her hasty decision.
Her own words, mind, when I asked her how I should put it!"

"So there is a true heart under that splendid silk dress of hers?" I
said.

My aunt walked up and down the room, silent and frowning--discontented
with me, or discontented with herself; it was impossible to tell which.
On a sudden, she sat down by me, and hit me a smart slap on the shoulder.

"David!" she said, "I have found out something about myself which I never
suspected before. If you want to see a cold-blooded wretch, look at me!"

It was so gravely said, and so perfectly absurd, that I burst out
laughing. She was far too seriously perplexed about herself to take the
smallest notice of my merriment.

"Do you know," she resumed, "that I actually hesitate to write to
Engelman? David! I ought to be whipped at the cart's tail. I don't
believe in Madame Fontaine."

She little knew how that abrupt confession interested me. "Tell me why!"
I said eagerly.

"That's the disgraceful part of it," she answered. "I can't tell you why.
Madame Fontaine spoke charmingly--with perfect taste and feeling. And all
the time some devilish spirit of distrust kept whispering to me, "Don't
believe her; she has her motive!" Are you sure, David, it is only a
little illness that makes her shut herself up in her room, and look so
frightfully pale and haggard? Do you know anything about her affairs?
Engelman is rich; Engelman has a position. Has she got into some
difficulty since she refused him? and could he, by the barest
possibility, be of any use in helping her out of it?"

I declare solemnly that the idea suggested by my aunt never occurred to
me until she asked those questions. As a rejected suitor, Mr. Engelman
could be of no possible use to the widow. But suppose he was her accepted
husband? and suppose the note fell due before Minna was married? In that
case, Mr. Engelman might unquestionably be of use--he might lend the
money.

My aunt's sharp eyes were on me. "Out with it, David!" she cried. "You
don't believe in her, either--and you know why."

"I know absolutely nothing," I rejoined; "I am guessing in the dark; and
the event may prove that I am completely at fault. Don't ask me to
degrade Madame Fontaine's character in your estimation, without an atom
of proof to justify what I say. I have something to propose which I think
will meet the difficulty."

With a strong exercise of self-restraint, my aunt resigned herself to
listen. "Let's hear your proposal," she said. "Have you any Scotch blood
in your veins, David? You are wonderfully prudent and cautious for so
young a man."

I went straight on with what I had to say.

"Send the widow's message to Mr. Engelman, by all means," I proceeded;
"but not by post. I was with him immediately after his offer of marriage
had been refused; and it is my belief that he is far too deeply wounded
by the manner in which Madame Fontaine expressed herself when she
rejected him, to be either able, or willing, to renew his proposal. I
even doubt if he will believe in her expression of regret. This view of
mine may turn out, of course, to be quite wrong; but let us at least put
it to the test. I can easily get leave of absence for a few days. Let me
take your letter to Bingen tomorrow, and see with my own eyes how it is
received."

At last I was fortunate enough to deserve my aunt's approval. "An
excellent suggestion," she said. "But--I believe I have caught the
infection of your prudence, David--don't let us tell Madame Fontaine. Let
her suppose that you have gone to Bingen in consequence of the
unfavorable news of Engelman's health." She paused, and considered a
little. "Or, better still, Bingen is on the way to England. There will be
nothing extraordinary in your stopping to visit Engelman, on your journey
to London."

This took me completely, and far from agreeably, by surprise. I said
piteously, "Must I really leave Frankfort?"

"My good fellow, I have other interests to consider besides Engelman's
interests," my aunt explained. "Mr. Hartrey is waiting to hear from me.
There is no hope that Engelman will be able to travel to London, in his
present state of health, and no possibility of Mr. Keller taking his
place until something is settled at Frankfort. I want you to explain all
this to Mr. Hartrey, and to help him in the management of the business.
There is nobody else here, David, whom I can trust, as I trust you. I see
no alternative but to ask you to go to London."

On my side, I had no alternative but to submit--and, what is more
(remembering all that I owed to my aunt), to submit with my best grace.
We consulted Mr. Keller; and he entirely agreed that I was the fittest
person who could be found to reconcile Mr. Hartrey to the commercial
responsibilities that burdened him. After a day's delay at Bingen, to
study the condition of Mr. Engelman's health and to write the fullest
report to Frankfort, the faster I could travel afterwards, and the sooner
I could reach London, the better.

So hard necessity compelled me to leave the stage, before the curtain
rose on the final acts of the drama. The mail-post started at six in the
morning. I packed up, and took leave of everybody, overnight--excepting
Madame Fontaine, who still kept her room, and who was not well enough to
see me. The dear kind-hearted Minna offered me her cheek to kiss, and
made me promise to return for her marriage. She was strangely depressed
at my departure. "You first consoled me," she said; "you have brought me
happiness. I don't like your leaving us. Oh, David, I do wish you were
not going away!" "Come! come!" my aunt interposed; "no crying, young
lady! Always keep a man's spirits up when he leaves you. Give me a good
hug, David--and think of the time when you will be a partner in the
business." Ah! what a woman she was! Look as you may, my young friends,
you will not find the like of her now.

Jack Straw was the one person up and stirring when the coach stopped the
next morning at the door. I expected to be amused--but there was no
reckoning with Jack. His farewell words literally frightened me.

"I say!" he whispered, as I hurried into the hall, "there's one thing I
want to ask you before you go."

"Be quick about it, Jack."

"All right, David. I had a talk with Minna yesterday, about Mr. Keller's
illness. Is it true that he was cured out of the blue-glass bottle?"

"Perfectly true.

"Look here, David! I have been thinking of it all night. _I_ was cured
out of the blue-glass bottle."

I suddenly stood still, with my eyes riveted on his face. He stepped
close up to me, and lowered his voice suddenly.

"And _I_ was poisoned," he said. "What I want to know is--Who poisoned
Mr. Keller?"

BETWEEN THE PARTS

MR. DAVID GLENNEY PRODUCES HIS CORRESPONDENCE, AND THROWS SOME NEW LIGHTS
ON THE STORY

I

Be pleased to read the following letter from Mr. Lawyer's-Clerk-Schmuckle
to Mr. Town-Councilor-Hof:

"My honored Sir,--I beg to report that you may make your mind easy on the
subject of Madame Fontaine. If she leaves Frankfort, she will not slip
away privately as she did at Wurzburg. Wherever she may go now, we need
not apply again to her relations in this place to help us to find her.
Henceforth I undertake to keep her in view until the promissory note
falls due.

"The lady is at present established as housekeeper in the employment of
the firm of Wagner, Keller, and Engelman; and there (barring accidents,
which I shall carefully look after) she is likely to remain.

"I have made a memorandum of the date at which her promissory note falls
due--viz., the 31st December in the present year. The note being made
payable at Wurzburg, you must take care (in the event of its not being
honored) to have the document protested in that town, and to communicate
with me by the same day's post. I will myself see that the law takes its
regular course.

"Permit me most gratefully to thank you for the advance on my regular
fees which you have so graciously transmitted, and believe me your
obedient humble servant to command."

II

I next submit a copy of a letter addressed by the late
Chemistry-Professor Fontaine to an honored friend and colleague. This
gentleman is still living; and he makes it a condition of supplying the
copy that his name shall not appear:--

"Illustrious Friend and Colleague,--You will be surprised at so soon
hearing from me again. The truth is, that I have some interesting news
for you. An alarming accident has enabled me to test the value of one of
my preparations on a living human subject--that subject being a man.

"My last letter informed you that I had resolved on making no further use
of the Formula for recomposing some of the Borgia Poisons (erroneously
supposed to be destroyed) left to me on the death of my lamented
Hungarian friend--my master in chemical science.

"The motives which have led me to this decision are, I hope, beyond the
reach of blame.

"You will remember agreeing with me, that the two specimens of these
resuscitated poisons which I have succeeded in producing are
capable--like the poisons already known to modern medical practice--of
rendering the utmost benefit in certain cases of disease, if they are
administered in carefully regulated doses. Should I live to devote them
to this good purpose, there will still be the danger (common to all
poisonous preparations employed in medicine) of their doing fatal
mischief, when misused by ignorance or crime.

"Bearing this in mind, I conceive it to be my duty to provide against
dangerous results, by devoting myself to the discovery of efficient
antidotes, before I adapt the preparations themselves to the capacities
of the healing art. I have had some previous experience in this branch of
what I call preservative chemistry, and I have already in some degree
succeeded in attaining my object.

"The Formula in cipher which I now send to you, on the slip of paper
enclosed, is an antidote to that one of the two poisons known to you and
to me by the fanciful name which you suggested for it--'Alexander's
Wine.'

"With regard to the second of the poisons, which (if you remember) I have
entitled--in anticipation of its employment as medicine--'The
Looking-Glass Drops,' I regret to say that I have not yet succeeded in
discovering the antidote in this case.

"Having now sufficiently explained my present position, I may tell you of
the extraordinary accident to which I have alluded at the beginning of my
letter.

"About a fortnight since, I was sent for, just as I had finished my
lecture to the students, to see one of my servants. He had been suffering
from illness for one or two days. I had of course offered him my medical
services. He refused, however, to trouble me; sending word that he only
wanted rest. Fortunately one of my assistants happened to see him, and at
once felt the necessity of calling in my help.

"The man was a poor half-witted friendless creature, whom I had employed
out of pure pity to keep my laboratory clean, and to wash and dry my
bottles. He had sense enough to perform such small services as these, and
no more. Judge of my horror when I went to his bedside, and instantly
recognized the symptoms of poisoning by "Alexander's Wine!"

"I ran back to my laboratory, and unlocked the medicine-chest which held
the antidote. In the next compartment, the poison itself was always
placed. Looking into the compartment now, I found it empty.

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