Books: Jezebel

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If I had been free to act on my own impulse, I should certainly (out of
regard for Mr. Engelman) have refrained from accompanying the visitors
when they were shown over the house. But Minna took my arm. I had no
choice but to follow Mr. Engelman and her mother when they left the room.

Minna spoke to me as confidentially as if I had been her brother.

"Do you know," she whispered, "that nice old gentleman and mamma are like
old friends already. Mamma is generally suspicious of strangers. Isn't it
odd? And she actually invites him to bring his pipe when he comes to see
us! He sits puffing smoke, and admiring mamma--and mamma does all the
talking. Do come and see us soon! I have nobody to speak to about Fritz.
Mamma and Mr. Engelman take no more notice of me than if I was a little
dog in the room."

As we passed from the ground floor to the first floor, Madame Fontaine's
admiration of the house rose from one climax of enthusiasm to another.
Among the many subjects that she understood, the domestic architecture of
the seventeenth century seemed to be one, and the art of water-color
painting soon proved to be another.

"I am not quite contemptible as a lady-artist," I heard her say to Mr.
Engelman; "and I should so like to make some little studies of these
beautiful old rooms--as memorials to take with me when I am far away from
Frankfort. But I don't ask it, dear Mr. Engelman. You don't want
enthusiastic ladies with sketch-books in this bachelor paradise of yours.
I hope we are not intruding on Mr. Keller. Is he at home?"

"No," said Mr. Engelman; "he has gone out."

Madame Fontaine's flow of eloquence suddenly ran dry. She was silent as
we ascended from the first floor to the second. In this part of the house
our bedrooms were situated. The chamber in which I slept presented
nothing particularly worthy of notice. But the rooms occupied by Mr.
Keller and Mr. Engelman contained some of the finest carved woodwork in
the house.

It was beginning to get dark. Mr. Engelman lit the candles in his own
room. The widow took one of them from him, and threw the light skillfully
on the different objects about her. She was still a little subdued; but
she showed her knowledge of wood-carving by picking out the two finest
specimens in the room--a wardrobe and a toilet-table.

"My poor husband was fond of old carving," she explained modestly; "what
I know about it, I know from him. Dear Mr. Engelman, your room is a
picture in itself. What glorious colors! How simple and how grand! Might
we----" she paused, with a becoming appearance of confusion. Her voice
dropped softly to lower tones. "Might we be pardoned, do you think, if we
ventured to peep into Mr. Keller's room?"

She spoke of "Mr. Keller's room" as if it had been a shrine, approachable
only by a few favored worshippers. "Where is it?" she inquired, with
breathless interest. I led the way out into the passage, and threw open
the door without ceremony. Madame Fontaine looked at me as if I had
committed an act of sacrilege.

Mr. Engelman, following us with one of his candles, lit an ancient brass
lamp which hung from the middle of the ceiling. "My learned partner," he
explained, "does a great deal of his reading in his bedroom, and he likes
plenty of light. You will have a good view when the lamp has burnt up.
The big chimney-piece is considered the finest thing of that sort in
Frankfort."

The widow confronted the chimney-piece, and clasped her hands in silent
rapture. When she was able to speak, she put her arm round Minna's waist.

"Let me teach you, my love, to admire this glorious work," she said, and
delivered quite a little lecture on the merits of the chimney-piece. "Oh,
if I could but take the merest sketch of it!" she exclaimed, by way of
conclusion. "But no, it is too much to ask." She examined everything in
the room with the minutest attention. Even the plain little table by the
bed-side, with a jug and a glass on it, did not escape her observation.
"Is that his drink?" she asked, with an air of respectful curiosity. "Do
you think I might taste it?"

Mr. Engelman laughed. "It's only barley-water, dear lady," he said. "Our
rheumatic old housekeeper makes as few journeys as possible up and down
stairs. When she sets the room in order in the evening, she takes the
night-drink up with her, and so saves a second journey."

"Taste it, Minna," said the widow, handing the glass to her daughter.
"How refreshing! how pure!"

Mr. Engelman, standing on the other side of her, whispered in her ear. I
was just behind them, and could not help hearing him. "You will make me
jealous," he said; "you never noticed _my_ night-drink--_I_ have beer."

The widow answered him by a look; he heaved a little sigh of happiness.
Poor Mr. Engelman!

Minna innocently broke in on this mute scene of sentiment.

She was looking at the pictures in the room, and asked for explanations
of them which Mr. Engelman only could afford. It struck me as odd that
her mother's artistic sympathies did not appear to be excited by the
pictures. Instead of joining her daughter at the other end of the room,
she stood by the bedside with her hand resting on the little table, and
her eyes fixed on the jug of barley-water, absorbed in thought. On a
sudden, she started, turned quickly, and caught me observing her. I might
have been deceived by the lamp-light; but I thought I saw a flash of
expression under her heavy eyelids, charged with such intensity of angry
suspicion that it startled me. She was herself again, before I could
decide whether to trust my own strong impression or not.

"Do I surprise you, David?" she asked in her gentlest tones. "I ought to
be looking at the pictures, you think? My friend! I can't always control
my own sad recollections. They will force themselves on me--sometimes
when the most trifling associations call them up. Dear Mr. Engelman
understands me. He, no doubt, has suffered too. May I sit down for a
moment?"

She dropped languidly into a chair, and sat looking at the famous
chimney-piece. Her attitude was the perfection of grace. Mr. Engelman
hurried through his explanation of the pictures, and placed himself at
her side, and admired the chimney-piece with her.

"Artists think it looks best by lamplight," he said. "The big pediment
between the windows keeps out the light in the daytime."

Madame Fontaine looked round at him with a softly approving smile.
"Exactly what I was thinking myself, when you spoke," she said. "The
effect by this light is simply perfect. Why didn't I bring my sketch-book
with me? I might have stolen some little memorial of it, in Mr. Keller's
absence." She turned towards me when she said that.

"If you can do without colors," I suggested, "we have paper and pencils
in the house."

The clock in the corridor struck the hour.

Mr. Engelman looked uneasy, and got up from his chair. His action
suggested that the time had passed by us unperceived, and that Mr.
Keller's return might take place at any moment. The same impression was
evidently produced on Minna. For once in her life, the widow's quick
perception seemed to have deserted her. She kept her seat as composedly
as if she had been at home.

"I wonder whether I could manage without my colors?" she said placidly.
"Perhaps I might try."

Mr. Engelman's uneasiness increased to downright alarm. Minna perceived
the change, as I did, and at once interfered.

"I am afraid, mamma, it is too late for sketching to-night," she said.
"Suppose Mr. Keller should come back?"

Madame Fontaine rose instantly, with a look of confusion. "How very
stupid of me not to think of it!" she exclaimed. "Forgive me, Mr.
Engelman--I was so interested, so absorbed--thank you a thousand times
for your kindness!" She led the way out, with more apologies and more
gratitude. Mr. Engelman recovered his tranquillity. He looked at her
lovingly, and gave her his arm to lead her down-stairs.

On this occasion, Minna and I were in front. We reached the first
landing, and waited there. The widow was wonderfully slow in descending
the stairs. Judging by what we heard, she was absorbed in the old
balusters now. When she at last joined us on the landing, the doors of
the rooms on the first floor delayed her again: it was simply impossible,
she said, to pass them without notice. Once more, Minna and I waited on
the ground floor. Here, there was another ancient brass lamp which
lighted the hall; and, therefore, another object of beauty which it was
impossible to pass over in a hurry.

"I never knew mamma to behave so oddly before," said Minna. "If such a thing
wasn't impossible, in our situation, one would really think she wanted
Mr. Keller to catch us in the house!"

There was not the least doubt in my mind (knowing as I did, how deeply
Madame Fontaine was interested in forcing her acquaintance on Mr. Keller)
that this was exactly what she did want. Fortune is proverbially said to
favor the bold; and Fortune offered to the widow the perilous opportunity
of which she had been in search.

While she was still admiring the lamp, the grating sound became audible
of a key put into the street door.

The door opened, and Mr. Keller walked into the hall.

He stopped instantly at the sight of two ladies who were both strangers
to him, and looked interrogatively at his partner. Mr. Engelman had no
choice but to risk an explanation of some kind. He explained, without
mentioning names.

"Friends of mine, Keller," he said confusedly, "to whom I have been
showing the house."

Mr. Keller took off his hat, and bowed to the widow. With a boldness that
amazed me, under the circumstances, she made a low curtsey to him, smiled
her sweetest smile, and deliberately mentioned her name.

"I am Madame Fontaine, sir," she said. "And this is my daughter, Minna."

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Keller fixed his eyes on the widow in stern silence; walked past her
to the inner end of the hall; and entered a room at the back of the
house, closing the door behind him. Even if he had felt inclined to look
at Minna, it would not have been possible for him to see her. After one
timid glance at him, the poor girl hid herself behind me, trembling
piteously. I took her hand to encourage her. "Oh, what hope is there for
us," she whispered, "with such a man as that?"

Madame Fontaine turned as Mr. Keller passed her, and watched his progress
along the hall until he disappeared from view. "No," she said quietly to
herself, "you don't escape me in that way."

As if moved by a sudden impulse, she set forth on the way by which Mr.
Keller had gone before her; walking, as he had walked, to the door at the
end of the hall.

I had remained with Minna, and was not in a position to see how her
mother looked. Mr. Engelman's face, as he stretched out his hands
entreatingly to stop Madame Fontaine, told me that the fierce passions
hidden deep in the woman's nature had risen to the surface and shown
themselves. "Oh, dear lady! dear lady!" cried the simple old man, "Don't
look like that! It's only Keller's temper--he will soon be himself
again."

Without answering him, without looking at him, she lifted her hand, and
put him back from her as if he had been a troublesome child. With her
firm graceful step, she resumed her progress along the hall to the room
at the end, and knocked sharply at the door.

Mr. Keller's voice answered from within, "Who is there?"

"Madame Fontaine," said the widow. "I wish to speak to you."

"I decline to receive Madame Fontaine."

"In that case, Mr. Keller, I will do myself the honor of writing to you."

"I refuse to read your letter."

"Take the night to think of it, Mr. Keller, and change your mind in the
morning."

She turned away, without waiting for a reply, and joined us at the outer
end of the hall.

Minna advanced to meet her, and kissed her tenderly. "Dear, kind mamma,
you are doing this for my sake," said the grateful girl. "I am ashamed
that you should humble yourself--it is so useless!"

"It shall _not_ be useless," her mother answered. "If fifty Mr. Kellers
threatened your happiness, my child, I would brush the fifty out of your
way. Oh, my darling, my darling!"

Her voice--as firm as the voice of a man, while she declared her
resolution--faltered and failed her when the last words of endearment
fell from her lips. She drew Minna to her bosom, and embraced in silent
rapture the one creature whom she loved. When she raised her head again
she was, to my mind, more beautiful than I had ever yet seen her. The
all-ennobling tears of love and grief filled her eyes. Knowing the
terrible story that is still to be told, let me do that miserable woman
justice. Hers was not a wholly corrupted heart. It was always in Minna's
power to lift her above her own wickedness. When she held out the hand
that had just touched her daughter to Mr. Engelman, it trembled as if she
had been the most timid woman living.

"Good night, dear friend," she said to him; "I am sorry to have been the
innocent cause of this little embarrassment."

Simple Mr. Engelman put his handkerchief to his eyes; never, in all his
life, had he been so puzzled, so frightened, and so distressed. He kissed
the widow's hand. "Do let me see you safe home!" he said, in tones of the
tenderest entreaty.

"Not to-night," she answered. He attempted a faint remonstrance. Madame
Fontaine knew perfectly well how to assert her authority over him--she
gave him another of those tender looks which had already become the charm
of his life. Mr. Engelman sat down on one of the hall chairs completely
overwhelmed. "Dear and admirable woman!" I heard him say to himself
softly.

Taking leave of me in my turn, the widow dropped my hand, struck, to all
appearance, by a new idea.

"I have a favor to ask of you, David," she said. "Do you mind going back
with us?"

As a matter of course I took my hat, and placed myself at her service.
Mr. Engelman got on his feet, and lifted his plump hands in mute and
melancholy protest. "Don't be uneasy," Madame Fontaine said to him, with
a faint smile of contempt. "David doesn't love me!"

I paused for a moment, as I followed her out, to console Mr. Engelman.
"She is old enough to be my mother, sir," I whispered; "and this time, at
any rare, she has told you the truth."

Hardly a word passed between us on our way through the streets and over
the bridge. Minna was sad and silent, thinking of Fritz; and whatever her
mother might have to say to me, was evidently to be said in private.
Arrived at the lodgings, Madame Fontaine requested me to wait for her in
the shabby little sitting-room, and graciously gave me permission to
smoke. "Say good night to David," she continued, turning to her daughter.
"Your poor little heart is heavy to-night, and mamma means to put you to
bed as if you were a child again. Ah! me, if those days could only come
back!"

After a short absence the widow returned to me, with a composed manner
and a quiet smile. The meeting with Mr. Keller seemed to have been
completely dismissed from her thoughts, in the brief interval since I had
seen her last.

"We often hear of parents improving their children," she said. "It is my
belief that the children quite as often improve the parents. I have had
some happy minutes with Minna--and (would you believe it?) I am already
disposed to forgive Mr. Keller's brutality, and to write to him in a tone
of moderation, which must surely have its effect. All Minna's doing--and
my sweet girl doesn't in the least suspect it herself! If you ever have
children of your own, David, you will understand me and feel for me. In
the meantime, I must not detain you by idle talk--I must say plainly what
I want of you." She opened her writing-desk and took up a pen. "If I
write to Mr. Keller under your own eye, do you object to take charge of
my letter?"

I hesitated how to answer. To say the least of it, her request
embarrassed me.

"I don't expect you to give it to Mr. Keller personally," she explained.
"It is of very serious importance to me" (she laid a marked emphasis on
those words) "to be quite sure that my letter has reached him, and that
he has really had the opportunity of reading it. If you will only place
it on his desk in the office, with your own hand, that is all I ask you
to do. For Minna's sake, mind; not for mine!"

For Minna's sake, I consented. She rose directly, and signed to me to
take her place at the desk.

"It will save time," she said, "if you write the rough draft of the
letter from my dictation. I am accustomed to dictate my letters, with
Minna for secretary. Of course, you shall see the fair copy before I seal
it."

She began to walk up and down the little room, with her hands crossed
behind her in the attitude made famous by the great Napoleon. After a
minute of consideration, she dictated the draft as follows:

"Sir,--I am well aware that scandalous reports at Wurzburg have
prejudiced you against me. Those reports, so far as I know, may be summed
up under three heads.

"(First.) That my husband died in debt through my extravagance.

"(Second.) That my respectable neighbors refuse to associate with me.

"(Third.) That I entrapped your son Fritz into asking for my daughter's
hand in marriage, because I knew his father to be a rich man.

"To the first calumny I reply, that the debts are due to expensive
chemical experiments in which my late husband engaged, and that I have
satisfied the creditors to the last farthing. Grant me an audience, and I
will refer you to the creditors themselves.

"To the second calumny I reply, that I received invitations, on my
arrival in Wurzburg after my marriage, from every lady of distinguished
social position in the town. After experience of the society thus offered
to me, I own to having courteously declined subsequent invitations, and
having devoted myself in retirement to my husband, to my infant child,
and to such studies in literature and art as I had time to pursue. Gossip
and scandal, with an eternal accompaniment of knitting, are not to my
taste; and, while I strictly attend to domestic duties, I do not consider
them as constituting, in connection with tea-drinking, the one great
interest of a woman's life. I plead guilty to having been foolish enough
to openly acknowledge these sentiments, and to having made bitter enemies
everywhere as the necessary consequence. If this plain defense of myself
fails to satisfy you, grant me an audience, and I will answer your
questions, whatever they may be.

"To the third calumny, I reply, that if you had been a Prince instead of
a merchant, I would still have done everything in my power to keep your
son away from my daughter--for this simple reason, that the idea of
parting with her to any man fills me with grief and dismay. I only
yielded to the marriage engagement, when the conviction was forced upon
me that my poor child's happiness depended on her union with your son. It
is this consideration alone which induces me to write to you, and to
humiliate myself by pleading for a hearing. As for the question of money,
if through some unexpected misfortune you became a bankrupt to-morrow, I
would entreat you to consent to the marriage exactly as I entreat you
now. Poverty has no terrors for me while I have health to work. But I
cannot face the idea of my child's life being blighted, because you
choose to believe the slanders that are spoken of her mother. For the
third time I ask you to grant me an audience, and to hear me in my own
defense."

There she paused, and looked over my shoulder.

"I think that is enough," she said. "Do you see anything objectionable in
my letter?"

How could I object to the letter? From beginning to end, it was strongly,
and yet moderately, expressed. I resigned my place at the desk, and the
widow wrote the fair copy, with her own hand. She made no change
whatever, except by adding these ominous lines as a postscript:

"I implore you not to drive me to despair. A mother who is pleading for
her child's life--it is nothing less, in this case--is a woman who surely
asserts a sacred claim. Let no wise man deny it."

"Do you think it quite discreet," I ventured to ask, "to add those
words?"

She looked at me with a moment's furtive scrutiny, and only answered
after she had sealed the letter, and placed it in my hands.

"I have my reasons," she replied. "Let the words remain."

Returning to the house at rather a late hour for Frankfort, I was
surprised to find Mr. Keller waiting to see me.

"I have had a talk with my partner," he said. "It has left (for the time
only, I hope), a painful impression on both sides--and I must ask you to
do me a service, in the place of Mr. Engelman--who has an engagement
to-morrow, which prevents him from leaving Frankfort."

His tone indicated plainly enough that the "engagement" was with Madame
Fontaine. Hard words must have passed between the two old friends on the
subject of the widow. Even Mr. Engelman's placid temper had, no doubt,
resented Mr. Keller's conduct at the meeting in the hall.

"The service I ask of you," he resumed, "will be easily rendered. The
proprietor of a commercial establishment at Hanau is desirous of entering
into business-relations with us, and has sent references to respectable
persons in the town and neighborhood, which it is necessary to verify. We
are so busy in the office that it is impossible for me to leave Frankfort
myself, or to employ our clerks on this errand. I have drawn out the
necessary instructions--and Hanau, as you are aware, is within an easy
distance of Frankfort. Have you any objection to be the representative of
the house in this matter?"

It is needless to say that I was gratified by the confidence that had
been placed in me, and eager to show that I really deserved it. We
arranged that I should leave Frankfort by the earliest conveyance the
next morning.

On our way upstairs to our bed-chambers, Mr. Keller detained me for a
moment more.

"I have no claim to control you in the choice of your friends," he said;
"but I am old enough to give you a word of advice. Don't associate
yourself too readily, David, with the woman whom I found here to-night."

He shook hands cordially, and left me. I thought of Madame Fontaine's
letter in my pocket, and felt a strong conviction that he would persist
in his refusal to read it.

The servants were the only persons stirring in the house, when I rose the
next morning. Unobserved by anyone, I placed the letter on the desk in
Mr. Keller's private room. That done, I started on my journey to Hanau.

CHAPTER XIV

Thanks to the instructions confided to me, my errand presented no
difficulties. There were certain persons to whom I was introduced, and
certain information to be derived from them, which it was my duty to
submit to Mr. Keller on my return. Fidelity was required of me, and
discretion was required of me--and that was all.

At the close of my day's work, the hospitable merchant, whose references
I had been engaged in verifying, refused to permit me to return to the
hotel. His dinner-hour had been put off expressly to suit my convenience.
"You will only meet the members of my family," he said, "and a cousin of
my wife's who is here with her daughter, on a visit to us--Frau Meyer, of
Wurzburg."

I accepted the invitation, feeling privately an Englishman's reluctance
to confronting an assembly of strangers, and anticipating nothing
remarkable in reference to Frau Meyer, although she did come from
Wurzburg. Even when I was presented to the ladies in due form, as "the
honored representative of Mr. Keller, of Frankfort," I was too stupid, or
too much absorbed in the business on which I had been engaged, to be much
struck by the sudden interest with which Frau Meyer regarded me. She was
a fat florid old lady, who looked coarsely clever and resolute; and she
had a daughter who promised to resemble her but too faithfully, in due
course of time. It was a relief to me, at dinner, to find myself placed
between the merchant's wife and her eldest son. They were far more
attractive neighbors at table, to my thinking, than Frau Meyer.

Dinner being over, we withdrew to another room to take our coffee. The
merchant and his son, both ardent musicians in their leisure hours,
played a sonata for pianoforte and violin. I was at the opposite
extremity of the room, looking at some fine proof impressions of prints
from the old masters, when a voice at my side startled me by an
unexpected question.

"May I ask, sir, if you are acquainted with Mr. Keller's son?"

I looked round, and discovered Frau Meyer.

"Have you seen him lately?" she proceeded, when I had acknowledged that I
was acquainted with Fritz. "And can you tell me where he is now?"

I answered both these questions. Frau Meyer looked thoroughly well
satisfied with me. "Let us have a little talk," she said, and seated
herself, and signed to me to take a chair near her.

"I feel a true interest in Fritz," she resumed, lowering her voice so as
not to be heard by the musicians at the other end of the room. "Until
to-day, I have heard nothing of him since he left Wurzburg. I like to
talk about him--he once did me a kindness a long time since. I suppose
you are in his confidence? Has he told you why his father sent him away
from the University?"

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