Jezebel's Daughter

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.

  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 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.