IX
The night is getting on; and the lamp I am writing by grows dim.
My mind wanders away from Frankfort, and from all that once happened
there. The picture now in my memory presents an English scene.
I am at the house of business in London. Two friends are waiting for me.
One of them is Fritz. The other is the most popular person in the
neighborhood; a happy, harmless creature, known to everyone by the
undignified nickname of Jack Straw. Thanks to my aunt's influence, and to
the change of scene, no return of the relapse at Frankfort has shown
itself. We are easy about the future of our little friend.
As to the past, we have made no romantic discoveries, relating to the
earlier years of Jack's life. Who were his parents; whether they died or
whether they deserted him; how he lived, and what he suffered, before he
drifted into the service of the chemistry-professor at Wurzburg--these,
and other questions like them, remain unanswered. Jack himself feels no
sort of interest in our inquiries. He either will not or cannot rouse his
feeble memory to help us. "What does it matter now?" he says. "I began to
live when Mistress first came to see me. I don't remember, and won't
remember, anything before that."
So the memoirs of Jack remain unwritten, for want of materials--like the
memoirs of many another foundling, in real life.
While I am speaking of Jack, I am keeping my two friends waiting in the
reception-room. I dress myself in my best clothes and join them. Fritz is
silent and nervous; unreasonably impatient for the arrival of the
carriage at the door. Jack promenades the room, with a superb nosegay in
the button-hole of a glorious blue coat. He has a watch; he carries a
cane; he wears white gloves, and tight nankeen pantaloons. He struts out
before us, when the carriage comes at last. "I don't deny that Fritz is a
figure in the festival," he says, when we drive away; "but I positively
assert that the thing is not complete without Me. If my dress fails in
any respect to do me justice, for Heaven's sake mention it, one of you,
before we pass the tailor's door!" I answer Jack, by telling him that he
is in all respects perfect. And Jack answers me, "David, you have your
faults; but your taste is invariably correct. Give me a little more room;
I can't face Mistress with crumpled coat-tails."
We reach a little village in the neighborhood of London, and stop at the
gate of the old church.
We walk up to the altar-rails, and wait there. All the women in the place
are waiting also. They merely glance at Fritz and at me--their whole
attention is concentrated on Jack. They take him for the bridegroom. Jack
discovers it; and is better pleased with himself than ever.
The organist plays a wedding-march. The bride, simply and unpretendingly
dressed, just fluttered enough to make her eyes irresistible, and her
complexion lovely, enters the church, leaning on Mr. Keller's arm.
Our good partner looks younger than usual. At his own earnest request,
the business in Frankfort has been sold; the head-partner first
stipulating for the employment of a given number of reputable young women
in the office. Removed from associations which are inexpressibly
repellent to him, Mr. Keller is building a house, near Mrs. Wagner's
pretty cottage, on the hill above the village. Here he proposes to pass
the rest of his days peacefully, with his two married children.
On their way to the altar, Mr. Keller and Minna are followed by Doctor
Dormann (taking his annual holiday, this year, in England). The doctor
gives his arm to the woman of all women whom Jack worships and loves. My
kind and dear aunt--with the old bright charm in her face; the firm
friend of all friendless creatures--why does my calmness desert me, when
I try to draw my little portrait of her; Minna's second mother, standing
by Minna's side, on the greatest day of her life?
I can't even see the paper. Nearly fifty years have passed, since that
wedding-day. Oh, my coevals, who have outlived your dearest friends, like
me, _you_ know what is the matter with my eyes! I must take out my
handkerchief, and put down my pen--and leave some of you younger ones to
finish the story of the marriage for yourself.
Wilkie Collins, Jezebel's Daughter
(Series: # )
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