Jezebel's Daughter

stone. Do you know what he did with dear Madame Fontaine's letter? A

  downright insult, David--he sent it back to her!"

  "Without explanation or apology?" I asked.

  "With a line on the envelope. 'I warned you that I should refuse to read

  your letter. You see that I am a man of my word.' What a message to send

  to a poor mother, who only asks leave to plead for her child's happiness!

  You saw the letter. Enough to melt the heart of any man, as I should have

  thought. I spoke to Keller on the subject; I really couldn't help it."

  "Wasn't that rather indiscreet, Mr. Engelman?"

  "I said nothing that could reasonably offend him. 'Do you know of some

  discreditable action on the part of Madame Fontaine, which has not been

  found out by anyone else?' I asked. 'I know the character she bears in

  Wurzburg,' he said; 'and the other night I saw her face. That is all I

  know, friend Engelman, and that is enough for me.' With those sour words,

  he walked out of the room. What lamentable prejudice! What an unchristian

  way of thinking! The name of Madame Fontaine will never be mentioned

  between us again. When that much-injured lady honors me with another

  visit, I can only receive her where she will be protected from insult, in

  a house of my own."

  "Surely you are not going to separate yourself from Mr. Keller?" I said.

  "Not for the present. I will wait till your aunt comes here, and brings

  that restless reforming spirit of hers into the business. Changes are

  sure to follow--and my change of residence may pass as one of them."

  He got up to leave the room, and stopped at the door.

  "I wish you would come with me, David, to Madame Fontaine's. She is very

  anxious to see you." Feeling no such anxiety on my side, I attempted to

  excuse myself; but he went on without giving me time to speak--"Nice

  little Miss Minna is very dull, poor child. She has no friend of her own

  age here at Frankfort, excepting yourself. And she has asked me more than

  once when Mr. David would return from Hanau."

  My excuses failed me when I heard this. Mr. Engelman and I left the house

  together.

  As we approached the door of Madame Fontaine's lodgings, it was opened

  from within by the landlady, and a stranger stepped out into the street.

  He was sufficiently well dressed to pass for a gentleman--but there were

  obstacles in his face and manner to a successful personation of the

  character. He cast a peculiarly furtive look at us both, as we ascended

  the house-steps. I thought he was a police spy. Mr. Engelman set him down

  a degree lower in the social scale.

  "I hope you are not in debt, ma'am," he said to the landlady; "that man

  looks to me like a bailiff in disguise."

  "I manage to pay my way, sir, though it is a hard struggle," the woman

  replied. "As for the gentleman who has just gone out, I know no more of

  him than you do."

  "May I ask what he wanted here?"

  "He wanted to know when Madame Fontaine was likely to quit my apartments.

  I told him my lodger had not appointed any time for leaving me yet."

  "Did he mention Madame Fontaine's name?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How did he know that she lived here?"

  "He didn't say."

  "And you didn't think of asking him?"

  "It was very stupid of me, sir--I only asked him how he came to know that

  I let apartments. He said, 'Never mind, now; I am well recommended, and

  I'll call again, and tell you about it.' And then I opened the door for

  him, as you saw."

  "Did he ask to see Madame Fontaine?"

  "No, sir."

  "Very odd!" said Mr. Engelman, as we went upstairs. "Do you think we

  ought to mention it?"

  I thought not. There was nothing at all uncommon in the stranger's

  inquiries, taken by themselves. We had no right, that I could see, to

  alarm the widow, because we happened to attach purely fanciful suspicions

  to a man of whom we knew nothing. I expressed this opinion to Mr.

  Engelman; and he agreed with me.

  The same subdued tone which had struck me in the little household in Main

  Street, was again visible in the welcome which I received in Madame

  Fontaine's lodgings. Minna looked weary of waiting for the long-expected

  letter from Fritz. Minna's mother pressed my hand in silence, with a

  melancholy smile. Her reception of my companion struck me as showing some

  constraint. After what had happened on the night of her visit to the

  house, she could no longer expect him to help her to an interview with

  Mr. Keller. Was she merely keeping up appearances, on the chance that he

  might yet be useful to her, in some other way? The trifling change which

  I observed did not appear to present itself to Mr. Engelman. I turned

  away to Minna. Knowing what I knew, it grieved me to see that the poor

  old man was fonder of the widow, and prouder of her than ever.

  It was no very hard task to revive the natural hopefulness of Minna's

  nature. Calculating the question of time in the days before railroads, I

  was able to predict the arrival of Fritz's letter in two, or at most

  three days more. This bright prospect was instantly reflected in the

  girl's innocent face. Her interest in the little world about her revived.

  When her mother joined us, in our corner of the room, I was telling her

  all that could be safely related of my visit to Hanau. Madame Fontaine

  seemed to be quite as attentive as her daughter to the progress of my

  trivial narrative--to Mr. Engelman's evident surprise.

  "Did you go farther than Hanau?" the widow asked.

  "No farther."

  "Were there any guests to meet you at the dinner-party?"

  "Only the members of the family."

  "I lived so long, David, in dull old Wurzburg, that I can't help feeling

  a certain interest in the town. Did the subject turn up? Did you hear of

  anything that was going on there?"

  I answered this as cautiously as I had answered the questions that had

  gone before it. Frau Meyer had, I fear, partially succeeded in perverting

  my sense of justice. Before my journey to Hanau, I might have attributed

  the widow's inquiries to mere curiosity. I believed suspicion to be the

  ruling motive with her, now.

  Before any more questions could be asked, Mr. Engelman changed the topic

  to a subject of greater interest to himself. "I have told David, dear

  lady, of Mr. Keller's inhuman reception of your letter."

  "Don't say 'inhuman,' " Madame Fontaine answered gently; "it is I alone

  who am to blame. I have been a cause of estrangement between you and your

  partner, and I have destroyed whatever little chance I might once have

  had of setting myself right in Mr. Keller's estimation. All due to my

  rashness in mentioning my name. If I had been less fond of my little girl

  here, and less eager to seize the first opportunity of pleading for her,

  I should never have committed that fatal mistake."

  So far, this was sensibly said--and, as an explanation of her own

  imprudence, was unquestionably no more than the truth.

  I was less favorably impressed by what followed, when she went on;

  "Pray understand, David, that I don't complain. I feel no ill-will

/>   towards Mr. Keller. If chance placed the opportunity of doing him a

  service in my hands, I should be ready and willing to make use of it--I

  should be only too glad to repair the mischief that I have so innocently

  done."

  She raised her handkerchief to her eyes. Mr. Engelman raised his

  handkerchief to his eyes. Minna took her mother's hand. I alone sat

  undemonstrative, with my sympathies in a state of repose. Frau Meyer

  again! Nothing but the influence of Frau Meyer could have hardened me in

  this way!

  "I have entreated our sweet friend not to leave Frankfort in despair,"

  Mr. Engelman explained in faltering tones. "Although my influence with

  Keller is, for the present, a lost influence in this matter, I am more

  than willing--I am eager--to speak to Mrs. Wagner on Madame Fontaine's

  behalf. My advice is, Wait for Mrs. Wagner's arrival, and trust to _my_

  zeal, and _my_ position in the firm. When both his partners summon him to

  do justice to an injured woman, even Keller must submit!"

  The widow's eyes were still hidden behind her handkerchief. But the lower

  part of her face was visible. Unless I completely misinterpreted the mute

  language of her lips, she had not the faintest belief in the fulfillment

  of Mr. Engelman's prediction. Whatever reason she might have for

  remaining in Frankfort, after the definite rejection of her too-confident

  appeal to Mr. Keller's sympathies, was thus far undoubtedly a reason

  known only to herself. That very night, after we had left her, an

  incident occurred which suggested that she had some motive for

  ingratiating herself with one of the servants in Mr. Keller's house.

  Our domestic establishment indoors consisted of the sour-tempered old

  housekeeper (who was perfectly unapproachable); of a little kitchen-maid

  (too unimportant a person to be worth conciliating); and of the footman

  Joseph, who performed the usual duties of waiting on us at table, and

  answering the door. This last was a foolish young man, excessively vain

  of his personal appearance--but a passably good servant, making allowance

  for these defects.

  Having occasion to ring for Joseph, to do me some little service, I

  noticed that the loose ends of his necktie were connected by a smart new

  pin, presenting a circle of malachite set in silver.

  "Have you had a present lately," I asked, "or are you extravagant enough

  to spend your money on buying jewelry?"

  Joseph simpered in undisguised satisfaction with himself. "It's a

  present, sir, from Madame Fontaine. I take her flowers almost every day

  from Mr. Engelman, and I have done one or two trifling errands for her in

  the town. She was pleased with my attention to her wishes. 'I have very

  little money, Mr. Joseph,' she said; 'oblige me by accepting this pin in

  return for the trouble I have given you.' And she took the pin out of the

  beautiful white lace round her neck, and made me a present of it with her

  own hand. A most liberal lady, isn't she, sir?"

  "Liberal indeed, Joseph, considering the small services which you seem to

  have rendered to her. Are you quite sure that she doesn't expect

  something more of you?"

  "Oh, quite sure, sir." He blushed as he said that--and rather hurriedly

  left the room. How would Frau Meyer have interpreted Joseph's blushes,

  and the widow's liberality? I went to bed without caring to pursue that

  question.

  A lapse of two days more brought with it two interesting events: the

  opening night of a traveling opera company on a visit to Frankfort, and

  the arrival by a late post of our long-expected letters from London.

  The partners (both of them ardent lovers of music) had taken a box for

  the short season, and, with their usual kindness, had placed a seat at my

  disposal. We were all three drinking our coffee before going to the

  theater, and Joseph was waiting on us, when the rheumatic old housekeeper

  brought in the letters, and handed them to me, as the person who sat

  nearest to the door.

  "Why, my good creature, what has made you climb the stairs, when you

  might have rung for Joseph?" asked kind-hearted Mr. Engelman.

  "Because I have got something to ask of my masters," answered crabbed

  Mother Barbara. "There are your letters, to begin with. Is it true that

  you are, all three of you, going to the theater to-night?"

  She never used any of the ordinary terms of respect. If she had been

  their mother, instead of their housekeeper, she could not have spoken

  more familiarly to the two old gentlemen who employed her.

  "Well," she went on, "my daughter is in trouble about her baby, and wants

  my advice. Teething, and convulsions, and that sort of thing. As you are

  all going out for the evening, you don't want me, after I have put your

  bedrooms tidy. I can go to my daughter for an hour or two, I suppose--and

  Joseph (who isn't of much use, heaven knows) can take care of the house.

  Mr. Keller, refreshing his memory of the opera of the night (Gluck's

  "Armida") by consulting the book, nodded, and went on with his reading.

  Mr. Engelman said, "Certainly, my good soul; give my best wishes to your

  daughter for the baby's health." Mother Barbara grunted, and hobbled out

  of the room.

  I looked at the letters. Two were for me--from my aunt and Fritz. One was

  for Mr. Keller--addressed also in the handwriting of my aunt. When I

  handed it to him across the table, he dropped "Armida" the moment he

  looked at the envelope. It was the answer to his remonstrance on the

  subject of the employment of women.

  For Minna's sake, I opened Fritz's letter first. It contained the

  long-expected lines to his sweetheart. I went out at once, and, enclosing

  the letter in an envelope, sent Joseph away with it to the widow's

  lodgings before Mother Barbara's departure made it necessary for him to

  remain in the house.

  Fritz's letter to me was very unsatisfactory. In my absence, London was

  unendurably dull to him, and Minna was more necessary to the happiness of

  his life than ever. He desired to be informed, by return of post, of the

  present place of residence of Madame Fontaine and her daughter. If I

  refused to comply with this request, he could not undertake to control

  himself, and he thought it quite likely that he might "follow his heart's

  dearest aspirations," and set forth on the journey to Frankfort in search

  of Minna.

  My aunt's letter was full of the subject of Jack Straw.

  In the first place she had discovered, while arranging her late husband's

  library, a book which had evidently suggested his ideas of reformation in

  the treatment of the insane. It was called, "Description of the Retreat,

  an institution near York for insane persons of the Society of Friends.

  Written by Samuel Tuke." She had communicated with the institution; had

  received the most invaluable help; and would bring the book with her to

  Frankfort, to be translated into German, in the interests of humanity.

  (1)

  (1) Tuke's Description of the Retreat near York is reviewed by Sydney

  Smith in a number of the "Edinburgh Review," for 1814.

  As for her
merciful experiment with poor Jack, it had proved to be

  completely successful--with one serious drawback. So long as he was under

  her eye, and in daily communication with her, a more grateful,

  affectionate, and perfectly harmless creature never breathed the breath

  of life. Even Mr. Hartrey and the lawyer had been obliged to confess that

  they had been in the wrong throughout, in the view they had taken of the

  matter. But, when she happened to be absent from the house, for any

  length of time, it was not to be denied that Jack relapsed. He did

  nothing that was violent or alarming--he merely laid himself down on the

  mat before the door of her room, and refused to eat, drink, speak, or

  move, until she returned. He heard her outside the door, before anyone

  else was aware that she was near the house; and his joy burst out in a

  scream which did certainly recall Bedlam. That was the drawback, and the

  only drawback; and how she was to take the journey to Frankfort, which

  Mr. Keller's absurd remonstrance had rendered absolutely necessary, was

  more than my aunt's utmost ingenuity could thus far discover. Setting

  aside the difficulty of disposing of Jack, there was another difficulty,

  represented by Fritz. It was in the last degree doubtful if he could be

  trusted to remain in London in her absence. "But I shall manage it," the

  resolute woman concluded. "I never yet despaired of anything--and I don't

  despair now."

  Returning to the sitting-room, when it was time to go to the theater, I

  found Mr. Keller with his temper in a flame, and Mr. Engelman silently

  smoking as usual.

  "Read that!" cried Mr. Keller, tossing my aunt's reply to him across the

  table. "It won't take long."

  It was literally a letter of four lines! "I have received your

  remonstrance. It is useless for two people who disagree as widely as we

  do, to write to each other. Please wait for my answer, until I arrive at

  Frankfort."

  "Let's go to the music!" cried Mr. Keller. "God knows, I want a composing

  influence of some kind."

  At the end of the first act of the opera, a new trouble exhausted his

  small stock of patience. He had been too irritated, on leaving the house,

  to remember his opera-glass; and he was sufficiently near-sighted to feel

  the want of it. It is needless to say that I left the theater at once to

  bring back the glass in time for the next act.

  My instructions informed me that I should find it on his bedroom-table.

  I thought Joseph looked confused when he opened the house-door to me. As

  I ran upstairs, he followed me, saying something. I was in too great a

  hurry to pay any attention to him.

  Reaching the second floor by two stairs at a time, I burst into Mr.

  Keller's bedroom, and found myself face to face with--Madame Fontaine!

  CHAPTER XVII

  The widow was alone in the room; standing by the bedside table on which

  Mr. Keller's night-drink was placed. I was so completely taken by

  surprise, that I stood stock-still like a fool, and stared at Madame

  Fontaine in silence.

  On her side she was, as I believe, equally astonished and equally

  confounded, but better able to conceal it. For the moment, and only for

  the moment, she too had nothing to say. Then she lifted her left hand

  from under her shawl. "You have caught me, Mr. David!" she said--and held

  up a drawing-book as she spoke.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked.

  She pointed with the book to the famous carved mantelpiece.

  "You know how I longed to make a study of that glorious work," she

  answered. "Don't be hard on a poor artist who takes her opportunity when

  she finds it."

  "May I ask how you came to know of the opportunity, Madame Fontaine?"