Books: Jezebel

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

"I want to tell you the whole truth," said Madame Fontaine, as soon as we
were alone; "and I can only do so in the absence of my daughter. You must
have seen for yourself that we are very poor?"

Her hand pressed mine gently. I answered as delicately as I could--I said
I was sorry, but not surprised, to hear it.

"When you kindly helped Minna to get that letter yesterday," she went on,
"you were the innocent means of inflicting a disappointment on me--one
disappointment more, after others that had gone before it. I came here to
place my case before some wealthy relatives of mine in this city. They
refused to assist me. I wrote next to other members of my family, living
in Brussels. The letter of yesterday contained their answer. Another
refusal! The landlady of this house is an afflicted creature, with every
claim on my sympathies; she, too, is struggling with poverty. If I failed
to pay her, it would be too cruel. Only yesterday I felt it my hard duty
to give her notice of our departure in a week more. I have just written
to recall that notice. The reason is, that I see a gleam of hope in the
future--and you, Mr. David, are the friend who has shown it to me."

I was more than surprised at this. "May I ask how?" I said.

She patted my hand with a playful assumption of petulance.

"A little more patience," she rejoined; "and you shall soon hear. If I
had only myself to think of, I should not feel the anxieties that now
trouble me. I could take a housekeeper's place to-morrow. Yes! I was
brought up among surroundings of luxury and refinement; I descended in
rank when I married--but for all that, I could fill a domestic employment
without repining my lot, without losing my self-respect. Adversity is a
hard teacher of sound lessons, David. May I call you David? And if you
heard of a housekeeper's place vacant, would you tell me of it?"

I could hardly understand whether she was in jest or in earnest. She went
on without waiting for me to reply.

"But I have my daughter to think of," she resumed, "and to add to my
anxieties my daughter has given her heart to Mr. Keller's son. While I
and my dear Minna had only our own interests to consider, we might have
earned our daily bread together; we might have faced the future with
courage. But what might once have been the calm course of our lives is
now troubled by a third person--a rival with me in my daughter's
love--and, worse still, a man who is forbidden to marry her. Is it
wonderful that I feel baffled, disheartened, helpless? Oh, I am not
exaggerating! I know my child's nature. She is too delicate, too
exquisitely sensitive, for the rough world she lives in. When she loves,
she loves with all her heart and soul. Day by day I have seen her pining
and fading under her separation from Fritz. You have revived her hopes
for the moment--but the prospect before her remains unaltered. If she
loses Fritz she will die of a broken heart. Oh, God! the one creature I
love--and how I am to help her and save her I don't know!"

For the first time, I heard the fervor of true feeling in her voice. She
turned aside from me, and hid her face with a wild gesture of despair
that was really terrible to see. I tried, honestly tried, to comfort her.

"Of one thing at least you may be sure." I said. "Fritz's whole heart is
given to your daughter. He will be true to her, and worthy of her,
through all trials."

"I don't doubt it," she answered sadly, "I have nothing to say against my
girl's choice. Fritz is good, and Fritz is true, as you say. But you
forget his father. Personally, mind, I despise Mr. Keller." She looked
round at me with unutterable contempt flashing through the tears that
filled her eyes. "A man who listens to every lie that scandal can utter
against the character of a helpless woman--who gives her no opportunity
of defending herself (I have written to him and received no answer)--who
declares that his son shall never marry my daughter (because we are poor,
of course); and who uses attacks on my reputation which he has never
verified, as the excuse for his brutal conduct--can anybody respect such
a man as that? And yet on this despicable creature my child's happiness
and my child's life depend! For her sake, no matter what my own feeling
may be, I must stoop to defend myself. I must make my opportunity of
combating his cowardly prejudice, and winning his good opinion in spite
of himself. How am I to get a hearing? how am I to approach him? I
understand that you are not in a position to help me. But you have done
wonders for me nevertheless, and God bless you for it!"

She lifted my hand to her lips. I foresaw what was coming; I tried to
speak. But she gave me no opportunity; her eloquent enthusiasm rushed
into a new flow of words.

"Yes, my best of friends, my wisest of advisers," she went on; "you have
suggested the irresistible interference of a person whose authority is
supreme. Your excellent aunt is the head of the business; Mr. Keller
_must_ listen to his charming chief. There is my gleam of hope. On that
chance, I will sell the last few valuables I possess, and wait till Mrs.
Wagner arrives at Frankfort. You start, David! What is there to alarm
you? Do you suppose me capable of presuming on your aunt's kindness--of
begging for favors which it may not be perfectly easy for her to grant?
Mrs. Wagner knows already from Fritz what our situation is. Let her only
see my Minna; I won't intrude on her myself. My daughter shall plead for
me; my daughter shall ask for all I want--an interview with Mr. Keller,
and permission to speak in my own defense. Tell me, honestly, am I
expecting too much, if I hope that your aunt will persuade Fritz's father
to see me?"

It sounded modestly enough in words. But I had my own doubts,
nevertheless.

I had left Mr. Keller working hard at his protest against the employment
of women in the office, to be sent to my aunt by that day's post. Knowing
them both as I did, I thought it at least probable that a written
controversy might be succeeded by a personal estrangement. If Mr. Keller
proved obstinate, Mrs. Wagner would soon show him that she had a will of
her own. Under those circumstances, no favors could be asked, no favors
could be granted--and poor Minna's prospects would be darker than ever.

This was one view of the case. I must own, however, that another
impression had been produced on me. Something in Madame Fontaine's manner
suggested that she might not be quite so modest in her demands on my
aunt, when they met at Frankfort, as she had led me to believe. I was
vexed with myself for having spoken too unreservedly, and was quite at a
loss to decide what I ought to say in answer to the appeal that had been
made to me. In this state of perplexity I was relieved by a welcome
interruption. Minna's voice reached us from the landing outside. "I have
both hands engaged," she said; "please let me in."

I ran to the door. The widow laid her finger on her lips. "Not a word,
mind, to Minna!" she whispered. "We understand each other--don't we?"

I said, "Yes, certainly." And so the subject was dropped for the rest of
the evening.

The charming girl came in carrying the tea-tray. She especially directed
my attention to a cake which she had made that day with her own hands. "I
can cook," she said, "and I can make my own dresses--and if Fritz is a
poor man when he marries me, I can save him the expense of a servant."
Our talk at the tea-table was, I dare say, too trifling to be recorded. I
only remember that I enjoyed it. Later in the evening, Minna sang to me.
I heard one of those simple German ballads again, not long since, and the
music brought the tears into my eyes.

The moon rose early that night. When I looked at my watch, I found that
it was time to go. Minna was at the window, admiring the moonlight. "On
such a beautiful night," she said, "it seems a shame to stay indoors. Do
let us walk a part of the way back with Mr. David, mamma! Only as far as
the bridge, to see the moon on the river."

Her mother consented, and we three left the house together.

Arrived at the bridge, we paused to look at the view. But the clouds were
rising already, and the moonlight only showed itself at intervals. Madame
Fontaine said she smelt rain in the air, and took her daughter's arm to
go home. I offered to return with them as far as their own door; but they
positively declined to delay me on my way back. It was arranged that I
should call on them again in a day or two.

Just as we were saying good-night, the fitful moonlight streamed out
brightly again through a rift in the clouds. At the same moment a stout
old gentleman, smoking a pipe, sauntered past us on the pavement, noticed
me as he went by, stopped directly, and revealed himself as Mr. Engelman.
"Good-night, Mr. David," said the widow. The moon shone full on her as
she gave me her hand; Minna standing behind her in the shadow. In a
moment more the two ladies had left us.

Mr. Engelman's eyes followed the smoothly gliding figure of the widow,
until it was lost to view at the end of the bridge. He laid his hand
eagerly on my arm. "David!" he said, "who is that glorious creature?"

"Which of the two ladies do you mean?" I asked, mischievously.

"The one with the widow's cap, of course!"

"Do you admire the widow, sir?"

"Admire her!" repeated Mr. Engelman. "Look here, David!" He showed me the
long porcelain bowl of his pipe. "My dear boy, she has done what no woman
ever did with me yet--she has put my pipe out!"

CHAPTER XI

There was something so absurd in the association of Madame Fontaine's
charms with the extinction of Mr. Engelman's pipe, that I burst out
laughing. My good old friend looked at me in grave surprise.

"What is there to laugh at in my forgetting to keep my pipe alight?" he
asked. "My whole mind, David, was absorbed in that magnificent woman the
instant I set eyes on her. The image of her is before me at this
moment--an image of an angel in moonlight. Am I speaking poetically for
the first time in my life? I shouldn't wonder. I really don't know what
is the matter with me. You are a young man, and perhaps you can tell.
Have I fallen in love, as the saying is?" He took me confidentially by
the arm, before I could answer this formidable question. "Don't tell
friend Keller!" he said, with a sudden outburst of alarm. "Keller is an
excellent man, but he has no mercy on sinners. I say, David! couldn't you
introduce me to her?"

Still haunted by the fear that I had spoken too unreservedly during my
interview with the widow, I was in the right humor to exhibit
extraordinary prudence in my intercourse with Mr. Engelman.

"I couldn't venture to introduce you," I said; "the lady is living here
in the strictest retirement."

"At any rate, you can tell me her name," pleaded Mr. Engelman. "I dare
say you have mentioned it to Keller?"

"I have done nothing of the sort. I have reasons for saying nothing about
the lady to Mr. Keller."

"Well, you can trust me to keep the secret, David. Come! I only want to
send her some flowers from my garden. She can't object to that. Tell me
where I am to send my nosegay, there's a dear fellow."

I dare say I did wrong--indeed, judging by later events, I _know_ I did
wrong. But I could not view the affair seriously enough to hold out
against Mr. Engelman in the matter of the nosegay. He started when I
mentioned the widow's name.

"Not the mother of the girl whom Fritz wants to marry?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, the same. Don't you admire Fritz's taste? Isn't Miss Minna a
charming girl?"

"I can't say, David. I was bewitched--I had no eyes for anybody but her
mother. Do you think Madame Fontaine noticed me?"

"Oh, yes. I saw her look at you."

"Turn this way, David. The effect of the moonlight on you seems to make
you look younger. Has it the same effect on me? How old should you guess
me to be to-night? Fifty or sixty?"

"Somewhere between the two, sir."

(He was close on seventy. But who could have been cruel enough to say so,
at that moment?)

My answer proved to be so encouraging to the old gentleman that he
ventured on the subject of Madame Fontaine's late husband. "Was she very
fond of him, David? What sort of man was he?"

I informed him that I had never even seen Dr. Fontaine; and then, by way
of changing the topic, inquired if I was too late for the regular
supper-hour at Main Street.

"My dear boy, the table was cleared half an hour ago. But I persuaded our
sour-tempered old housekeeper to keep something hot for you. You won't
find Keller very amiable to-night, David. He was upset, to begin with, by
writing that remonstrance to your aunt--and then your absence annoyed
him. 'This is treating our house like an hotel; I won't allow anybody to
take such liberties with us.' Yes! that was really what he said of you.
He was so cross, poor fellow, that I left him, and went out for a stroll
on the bridge. And met my fate," added poor Mr. Engelman, in the saddest
tones I had ever heard fall from his lips.

My reception at the house was a little chilly.

"I have written my mind plainly to your aunt," said Mr. Keller; "you will
probably be recalled to London by return of post. In the meantime, on the
next occasion when you spend the evening out, be so obliging as to leave
word to that effect with one of the servants." The crabbed old
housekeeper (known in the domestic circle as Mother Barbara) had her
fling at me next. She set down the dish which she had kept hot for me,
with a bang that tried the resisting capacity of the porcelain severely.
"I've done it this once," she said. "Next time you're late, you and the
dog can sup together."

The next day, I wrote to my aunt, and also to Fritz, knowing how anxious
he must be to hear from me.

To tell him the whole truth would probably have been to bring him to
Frankfort as fast as sailing-vessels and horses could carry him. All I
could venture to say was, that I had found the lost trace of Minna and
her mother, and that I had every reason to believe there was no cause to
feel any present anxiety about them. I added that I might be in a
position to forward a letter secretly, if it would comfort him to write
to his sweetheart.

In making this offer, I was, no doubt, encouraging my friend to disobey
the plain commands which his father had laid on him.

But, as the case stood, I had really no other alternative. With Fritz's
temperament, it would have been simply impossible to induce him to remain
in London, unless his patience was sustained in my absence by a practical
concession of some kind. In the interests of peace, then--and I must own
in the interests of the pretty and interesting Minna as well--I consented
to become a medium for correspondence, on the purely Jesuitical principle
that the end justified the means. I had promised to let Minna know of it
when I wrote to Fritz. My time being entirely at my own disposal, until
the vexed question of the employment of women was settled between Mr.
Keller and my aunt, I went to the widow's lodgings, after putting my
letters in the post.

Having made Minna happy in the anticipation of hearing from Fritz, I had
leisure to notice an old china punch-bowl on the table, filled to
overflowing with magnificent flowers. To anyone who knew Mr. Engelman as
well as I did, the punch-bowl suggested serious considerations. He, who
forbade the plucking of a single flower on ordinary occasions, must, with
his own hands, have seriously damaged the appearance of his beautiful
garden.

"What splendid flowers!" I said, feeling my way cautiously. "Mr. Engelman
himself might be envious of such a nosegay as that."

The widow's heavy eyelids drooped lower for a moment, in unconcealed
contempt for my simplicity.

"Do you really think you can mystify _me?"_ she asked ironically. "Mr.
Engelman has done more than send the flowers--he has written me a
too-flattering note. And I," she said, glancing carelessly at the
mantelpiece, on which a letter was placed, "have written the necessary
acknowledgment. It would be absurd to stand on ceremony with the harmless
old gentleman who met us on the bridge. How fat he is! and what a
wonderful pipe he carries--almost as fat as himself!"

Alas for Mr. Engelman! I could not resist saying a word in his favor--she
spoke of him with such cruelly sincere contempt.

"Though he only saw you for a moment," I said, "he is your ardent admirer
already."

"Is he indeed?" She was so utterly indifferent to Mr. Engelman's
admiration that she could hardly take the trouble to make that
commonplace reply. The next moment she dismissed the subject. "So you
have written to Fritz?" she went on. "Have you also written to your
aunt?"

"Yes, by the same post."

"Mainly on business, no doubt? Is it indiscreet to ask if you slipped in
a little word about the hopes that I associate with Mrs. Wagner's arrival
at Frankfort?"

This seemed to give me a good opportunity of moderating her "hopes," in
mercy to her daughter and to herself.

"I thought it undesirable to mention the subject--for the present, at
least," I answered. "There is a serious difference of opinion between
Mrs. Wagner and Mr. Keller, on a subject connected with the management of
the office here. I say serious, because they are both equally firm in
maintaining their convictions. Mr. Keller has written to my aunt by
yesterday's post; and I fear it may end in an angry correspondence
between them."

I saw that I had startled her. She suddenly drew her chair close to mine.

"Do you think the correspondence will delay your aunt's departure from
England?" she asked.

"On the contrary. My aunt is a very resolute person, and it may hasten
her departure. But I am afraid it will indispose her to ask any favors of
Mr. Keller, or to associate herself with his personal concerns. Any
friendly intercourse between them will indeed be impossible, if she
asserts her authority as head-partner, and forces him to submit to a
woman in a matter of business."

She sank back in her chair. "I understand." she said faintly.

While we had been talking, Minna had walked to the window, and had
remained there looking out. She suddenly turned round as her mother
spoke.

"Mamma! the landlady's little boy has just gone out. Shall I tap at the
window and call him back?"

The widow roused herself with an effort. "What for, my love?" she asked,
absently.

Minna pointed to the mantelpiece. "To take your letter to Mr. Engelman,
mamma." Madame Fontaine looked at the letter--paused for a moment--and
answered, "No, my dear; let the boy go. It doesn't matter for the
present."

She turned to me, with an abrupt recovery of her customary manner.

"I am fortunately, for myself, a sanguine person," she resumed. "I always
did hope for the best; and (feeling the kind motive of what you have said
to me) I shall hope for the best still. Minna, my darling, Mr. David and
I have been talking on dry subjects until we are tired. Give us a little
music." While her daughter obediently opened the piano, she looked at the
flowers. "You are fond of flowers, David?" she went on. "Do you
understand the subject? I ignorantly admire the lovely colors, and enjoy
the delicious scents--and I can do no more. It was really very kind of
your old friend Mr. Engelman. Does he take any part in this deplorable
difference of opinion between your aunt and Mr. Keller?"

What did that new allusion to Mr. Engelman mean? And why had she declined
to despatch her letter to him, when the opportunity offered of sending it
by the boy?

Troubled by the doubts which these considerations suggested, I committed
an act of imprudence--I replied so reservedly that I put her on her
guard. All I said was that I supposed Mr. Engelman agreed with Mr.
Keller, but that I was not in the confidence of the two partners. From
that moment she saw through me, and was silent on the subject of Mr.
Engelman. Even Minna's singing had lost its charm, in my present frame of
mind. It was a relief to me when I could make my excuses, and leave the
house.

On my way back to Main Street, when I could think freely, my doubts began
to develop into downright suspicion. Madame Fontaine could hardly hope,
after what I had told her, to obtain the all-important interview with Mr.
Keller, through my aunt's intercession. Had she seen her way to trying
what Mr. Engelman's influence with his partner could do for her? Would
she destroy her formal acknowledgment of the receipt of his flowers, as
soon as my back was turned, and send him a second letter, encouraging him
to visit her? And would she cast him off, without ceremony, when he had
served her purpose?

These were the thoughts that troubled me on my return to the house. When
we met at supper, some hours later, my worst anticipations were realized.
Poor innocent Mr. Engelman was dressed with extraordinary smartness, and
was in the highest good spirits. Mr. Keller asked him jestingly if he was
going to be married. In the intoxication of happiness that possessed him,
he was quite reckless; he actually retorted by a joke on the sore subject
of the employment of women! "Who knows what may happen," he cried gaily,
"when we have young ladies in the office for clerks?" Mr. Keller was so
angry that he kept silence through the whole of our meal. When Mr.
Engelman left the room I slipped out after him.

"You are going to Madame Fontaine's," I said.

He smirked and smiled. "Just a little evening visit, David. Aha! you
young men are not to have it all your own way." He laid his hand tenderly
on the left breast-pocket of his coat. "Such a delightful letter!" he
said. "It is here, over my heart. No, a woman's sentiments are sacred; I
mustn't show it to you."

I was on the point of telling him the whole truth, when the thought of
Minna checked me for the time. My interest in preserving Mr. Engelman's
tranquillity was in direct conflict with my interest in the speedy
marriage of my good friend Fritz. Besides, was it likely that anything I
could say would have the slightest effect on the deluded old man, in the
first fervor of his infatuation? I thought I would give him a general
caution, and wait to be guided by events.

"One word, sir, for your private ear," I said. "Even the finest women
have their faults. You will find Madame Fontaine perfectly charming; but
don't be too ready to believe that she is in earnest."

Mr. Engelman felt infinitely flattered, and owned it without the
slightest reserve.

"Oh, David! David!" he said, "are you jealous of me already?"

He put on his hat (with a jaunty twist on one side), and swung his stick
gaily, and left the room. For the first time, in my experience of him, he
went out without his pipe; and (a more serious symptom still) he really
did not appear to miss it.

CHAPTER XII

Two days passed, and I perceived another change in Mr. Engelman.

He was now transformed into a serious and reticent man. Had he committed
indiscretions which might expose him to ridicule if they were known? Or
had the widow warned him not to be too ready to take me into his
confidence? In any case, he said not one word to me about Madame
Fontaine's reception of him, and he left the house secretly when he paid
his next visit to her. Having no wish to meet him unexpectedly, and
feeling (if the truth be told) not quite at ease about the future, I kept
away from Minna and her mother, and waited for events.

On the third day, an event happened. I received a little note from
Minna:--

"Dear Mr. David,--If you care to see mamma and me, stay at home this
evening. Good Mr. Engelman has promised to show us his interesting old
house, after business hours."

There was nothing extraordinary in making an exhibition of "the old
house." It was one among the many picturesque specimens of the domestic
architecture of bygone days, for which Frankfort is famous; and it had
been sketched by artists of all nations, both outside and in. At the same
time, it was noticeable (perhaps only as a coincidence) that the evening
chosen for showing the house to the widow, was also the evening on which
Mr. Keller had an engagement with some friends in another part of the
city.

As the hour approached for the arrival of the ladies, I saw that Mr.
Engelman looked at me with an expression of embarrassment.

"Are you not going out this evening, David?" he asked.

"Am I in the way, sir?" I inquired mischievously.

"Oh, no!"

"In that case then, I think I shall stay at home."

He said no more, and walked up and down the room with an air of
annoyance. The bell of the street-door rang. He stopped and looked at me
again.

"Visitors?" I said.

He was obliged to answer me. "Friends of mine, David, who are coming to
see the house."

I was just sufficiently irritated by his persistence in keeping up the
mystery to set him the example of speaking plainly.

"Madame Fontaine and her daughter?" I said.

He turned quickly to answer me, and hesitated. At the same moment, the
door was opened by the sour old housekeeper, frowning suspiciously at the
two elegantly-dressed ladies whom she ushered into the room.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23