Jezebel's Daughter

grateful little man; you remember what Mrs. Wagner has done for you."

  "Remember?" Jack reported scornfully. "I say, if you can't talk more

  sensibly than that, you had better hold your tongue." He turned and

  appealed to me. "Did you ever hear anything like Fritz? He seems to think

  it wonderful that I remember the day when she took me out of Bedlam!"

  "Ah, Jack, that was a great day in your life, wasn't it?"

  "A great day? Oh, good Lord in Heaven! where are there words that are big

  enough to speak about it?" He sprang to his feet, wild with the sudden

  tumult of his own recollections. "The sun--the warm, golden, glorious,

  beautiful sun--met us when we came out of the gates, and all but drove me

  stark-staring-mad with the joy of it! Forty thousand devils--little

  straw-colored, lively, tempting devils--(mind, I counted them!)--all

  crawled over me together. They sat on my shoulders--and they tickled my

  hands--and they scrambled in my hair--and they were all in one cry at me

  like a pack of dogs. 'Now, Jack! we are waiting for you; your chains are

  off, and the sun's shining, and Mistress's carriage is at the gate--join

  us, Jack, in a good yell; a fine, tearing, screeching, terrifying, mad

  yell!' I dropped on my knees, down in the bottom of the carriage; and I

  held on by the skirts of Mistress's dress. 'Look at me!' I said; 'I won't

  burst out; I won't frighten you, if I die for it. Only help me with your

  eyes! only look at me!' And she put me on the front seat of the carriage,

  opposite her, and she never took her eyes off me all the way through the

  streets till we got to the house. 'I believe in you, Jack,' she said. And

  I wouldn't even open my lips to answer her--I was so determined to be

  quiet. Ha! ha! how you two fellows would have yelled, in my place!" He

  sat down again in his corner, delighted with his own picture of the two

  fellows who would have yelled in his place.

  "And what did Mistress do with you when she brought you home?" I asked.

  His gaiety suddenly left him. He lifted one of his hands, and waved it to

  and fro gently in the air.

  "You are too loud, David," he said. "All this part of it must be spoken

  softly--because all this part of it is beautiful, and kind, and good.

  There was a picture in the room, of angels and their harps. I wish I had

  the angels and the harps to help me tell you about it. Fritz there came

  in with us, and called it a bedroom. I knew better than that; I called it

  Heaven. You see, I thought of the prison and the darkness and the cold

  and the chains and the straw--and I named it Heaven. You two may say what

  you please; Mistress said I was right."

  He closed his eyes with a luxurious sense of self-esteem, and appeared to

  absorb himself in his own thoughts. Fritz unintentionally roused him by

  continuing the story of Jack's introduction to the bedroom.

  "Our little friend," Fritz began confidentially, "did the strangest

  things when he found himself in his new room. It was a cold day; and he

  insisted on letting the fire out. Then he looked at the bedclothes,

  and----"

  Jack solemnly opened his eyes again, and stopped the narrative at that

  point.

  "You are not the right person to speak of it," he said. "Nobody must

  speak of it but a person who understands me. You shan't be disappointed,

  David. I understand myself--_I'll_ tell you about it. You saw what sort

  of place I lived in and slept in at the madhouse, didn't you?"

  "I saw it, Jack--and I can never forget it."

  "Now just think of my having a room, to begin with. And add, if you

  please, a fire--and a light--and a bed--and blankets and sheets and

  pillows--and clothes, splendid new clothes, for Me! And then ask yourself

  if any man could bear it, all pouring on him at once (not an hour after

  he had left Bedlam), without going clean out of his senses and screeching

  for joy? No, no. If I have a quality, it's profound common sense. Down I

  went on my knees before her again! 'If you have any mercy on me,

  Mistress, let me have all this by a bit at a time. Upon my soul, I can't

  swallow it at once!' She understood me. We let the fire out--and

  surprised that deficient person, Fritz. A little of the Bedlam cold kept

  me nice and quiet. The bed that night if you like--but Heaven defend me

  from the blankets and the sheets and the pillows till I'm able to bear

  them! And as to putting on coat, waistcoat, and breeches, all together,

  the next morning--it was as much as I could do, when I saw myself in my

  breeches, to give the word of command in the voice of a gentleman--'Away

  with the rest of them! The shirt for to-morrow, the waistcoat for next

  day, and the coat--if I can bear the sight of it without screaming--the

  day after!' A gradual process, you see, David. And every morning Mistress

  helped me by saying the words she said in the carriage, 'I believe in

  you, Jack.' You ask her, when she gets up, if I ever once frightened her,

  from the day when she took me home." He looked again, with undiminished

  resentment, at Fritz. _"Now_ do you understand what I did when I got into

  my new room? Is Fritz in the business, David? He'll want a deal of

  looking after if he is. Just step this way--I wish to speak to you."

  He got up again, and taking my arm with a look of great importance, led

  me a few steps away--but not far enough to be out of sight of my aunt's

  bell.

  "I say," he began, "I've heard they call this place Frankfort. Am I

  right?"

  "Quite right!"

  "And there's a business here, like the business in London?"

  "Certainly."

  "And Mistress _is_ Mistress here, like she is in London?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well, then, I want to know something. What about the Keys?"

  I looked at him, entirely at a loss to understand what this last question

  meant. He stamped his foot impatiently.

  "Do you mean to say, David, you have never heard what situation I held in

  the London office?"

  "Never, Jack!"

  He drew himself up and folded his arms, and looked at me from the

  immeasurable height of his own superiority.

  "I was Keeper of the Keys in London!" he announced. "And what I want to

  know is--Am I to be Keeper of the Keys here?"

  It was now plain enough that my aunt--proceeding on the wise plan of

  always cultivating the poor creature's sense of responsibility--had given

  him some keys to take care of, and had put him on his honor to be worthy

  of his little trust. I could not doubt that she would find some means of

  humoring him in the same way at Frankfort.

  "Wait till the bells rings," I answered "and perhaps you will find the

  Keys waiting for you in Mistress' room."

  He rubbed his hands in delight. "That's it!" he said. "Let's keep watch

  on the bell."

  As he turned to go back again to his corner, Madame Fontaine's voice

  reached us from the top of the kitchen stairs. She was speaking to her

  daughter. Jack stopped directly and waited, looking round at the stairs.

  "Where is the other person who came here with Mrs. Wagner?" the widow

  asked. "A man with an odd English name. Do you know, Minna, if they have
/>
  found a room for him?"

  She reached the lower stair as she spoke--advanced along the

  corridor--and discovered Jack Straw. In an instant, her languid

  indifferent manner disappeared. Her eyes opened wildly under their heavy

  lids. She stood motionless, like a woman petrified by surprise--perhaps

  by terror.

  "Hans Grimm!" I heard her say to herself. "God in heaven! what brings

  _him_ here?"

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Almost instantaneously Madame Fontaine recovered her self-control.

  "I really couldn't help feeling startled," she said, explaining herself

  to Fritz and to me. "The last time I saw this man, he was employed in a

  menial capacity at the University of Wurzburg. He left us one day, nobody

  knew why. And he suddenly appears again, without a word of warning, in

  this house."

  I looked at Jack. A smile of mischievous satisfaction was on his face. He

  apparently enjoyed startling Madame Fontaine. His expression changed

  instantly for the better, when Minna approached and spoke to him.

  "Don't you remember me, Hans?" she said.

  "Oh, yes, Missie, I remember you. You are a good creature. You take after

  your papa. _He_ was a good creature--except when he had his beastly

  medical bottles in his hand. But, I say, I mustn't be called by the name

  they gave me at the University! I was a German then--I am an Englishman

  now. All nations are alike to me. But I am particular about my name,

  because it's the name Mistress knew me by. I will never have another.

  'Jack Straw,' if you please. There's my name, and I am proud of it. Lord!

  what an ugly little hat you have got on your head! I'll soon make you a

  better one." He turned on Madame Fontaine, with a sudden change to

  distrust.

  "I don't like the way you spoke of my leaving the University, just now. I

  had a right to go, if I liked--hadn't I?"

  "Oh, yes, Hans."

  "Not Hans! Didn't you hear what I mentioned just now? Say Jack."

  She said it, with a ready docility which a little surprised me.

  "Did I steal anything at the University?" Jack proceeded.

  "Not that I know of."

  "Then speak respectfully of me, next time. Say, 'Mr. Jack retired from

  the University, in the exercise of his discretion.' " Having stated this

  formula with an air of great importance, he addressed himself to me. "I

  appeal to you," he said. "Suppose you had lost your color here" (he

  touched his cheek), "and your color there" (he touched his hair); "and

  suppose it had happened at the University--would _you"_ (he stood on

  tip-toe, and whispered the next words in my ear) would _you_ have stopped

  there, to be poisoned again? No!" he cried, raising his voice once more,

  "you would have drifted away like me. From Germany to France; from France

  to England--and so to London, and so under the feet of her Highness's

  horses, and so to Bedlam, and so to Mistress. Oh, Lord help me, I'm

  forgetting the bell! good-bye, all of you. Let me be in my corner till

  the bell rings."

  Madame Fontaine glanced at me compassionately, and touched her bead.

  "Come to my sitting-room, Jack," she said, "and have something to eat and

  drink, and tell me your adventures after you left Wurzburg."

  She favored him with her sweetest smile, and spoke in her most

  ingratiating tones. That objectionable tendency of mine to easily suspect

  others was, I suppose, excited once more. At any rate, I thought the

  widow showed a very remarkable anxiety to conciliate Jack. He was proof,

  however, against all attempts at fascination--he shook his head

  obstinately, and pointed to the bell. We went our several ways, and left

  the strange little man crouched up in his corner.

  In the afternoon, I was sent for to see my aunt.

  I found Jack at his post; established in a large empty wardrobe, on the

  landing outside his mistress's door. His fingers were already busy with

  the framework of the new straw hat which he had promised to make for

  Minna.

  "All right, David!" he said, patronizing me as indulgently as ever.

  "Mistress has had her good sleep and her nice breakfast, and she looks

  lovely. Go in, and see her--go in!"

  I thought myself that she looked perhaps a little worn, and certainly

  thinner than when I had seen her last. But these were trifles. It is not

  easy to describe the sense of relief and pleasure that I felt--after

  having been accustomed to the sleepy eyes and serpentine graces of Madame

  Fontaine--when I looked again at the lithe active figure and the bright

  well-opened gray eyes of my dear little English aunt.

  "Tell me, David," she began, as soon as the first greetings were over,

  what do you think of Jack Straw? Was my poor dear husband not right? and

  have I not done well to prove it?"

  I could, and did, honestly congratulate her on the result of the visit to

  Bedlam.

  "And now about the people here," she went on. "I find Fritz's father

  completely changed on the subject of Fritz's marriage. And when I ask

  what it means, I am told that Madame Fontaine has set everything right,

  in the most wonderful manner, by saving Mr. Keller's life. Is this true?"

  "Quite true. What do you think of Madame Fontaine?"

  "Ask me that, David, to-morrow or the next day. My head is muddled by

  traveling--I have not made up my mind yet."

  "Have you seen Minna?"

  "Seen her, and kissed her too! There's a girl after my own heart. I

  consider our scatter-brained friend Fritz to be the luckiest young fellow

  living."

  "If Minna was not going to be married," I suggested, "she would just do

  for one of your young-lady clerks, wouldn't she?"

  My aunt laughed. "Exactly what I thought myself, when I saw her. But you

  are not to make a joke of my young-lady clerks. I am positively

  determined to carry out that useful reform in the office here. However,

  as Mr. Keller has been so lately ill, and as we are sure to have a fight

  about it, I will act considerately towards my opponent--I won't stir in

  the matter until he is quite himself again. In the meantime, I must find

  somebody, while I am away, to take my place in the London house. The

  business is now under the direction of Mr. Hartrey. He is perfectly

  competent to carry it on; but, as you know, our excellent head-clerk has

  his old--fashioned prejudices. According to strict rule, a partner ought

  always to be in command, at the London business--and Hartrey implores me

  (if Mr. Keller is not well enough to take the journey) to send Mr.

  Engelman to London. Where is Mr. Engelman? How is it that I have neither

  heard nor seen anything of him?"

  This was a delicate and difficult question to answer--at least, to my way

  of thinking. There was little prospect of keeping the poor old

  gentleman's sad secret. It was known to Fritz and Minna, as well as to

  Mr. Keller. Still, I felt an unconquerable reluctance to be the first

  person who revealed the disaster that had befallen him.

  "Mr. Engelman is not in good health and spirits," I said. "He has gone

  away for a little rest and change."

  My aunt looked astonished.

&nbs
p; "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."