Jezebel's Daughter by Wilkie Collins

  Madame Fontaine was looking out of the window. It was impossible for us

  to discover whether she approved of our remaining in the room or not.

  Mr. Keller read the closely written pages with the steadiest attention.

  He signed to the widow to approach him, and took her hand when he had

  arrived at the last words.

  "Let me ask your pardon," he said, "in the presence of my partner and in

  the presence of David Glenney, who took charge of your letter. Madame

  Fontaine, I speak the plain truth, in the plainest words, when I tell you

  that I am ashamed of myself."

  She dropped on her knees before him, and entreated him to say no more.

  Mr. Engelman looked at her, absorbed in admiration. Perhaps it was the

  fault of my English education--I thought the widow's humility a little

  overdone. What Mr. Keller's opinion might be, he kept to himself. He

  merely insisted on her rising, and taking a chair by his side.

  "To say that I believe every word of your letter," he resumed, "is only

  to do you the justice which I have too long delayed. But there is one

  passage which I must feel satisfied that I thoroughly understand, if you

  will be pleased to give me the assurance of it with your own lips. Am I

  right in concluding, from what is here written of your husband's

  creditors, that his debts (which have now, in honor, become your debts)

  have been all actually _paid_ to the last farthing?"

  "To the last farthing!" Madame Fontaine answered, without a moment's

  hesitation. "I can show you the receipts, sir, if you like."

  "No, madam! I take your word for it--I require nothing more. Your title

  to my heart-felt respect is now complete. The slanders which I have

  disgraced myself by believing would never have found their way to my

  credulity, if they had not first declared you to have ruined your husband

  by your debts. I own that I have never been able to divest myself of my

  inbred dislike and distrust of people who contract debts which they are

  not able to pay. The light manner in which the world is apt to view the

  relative positions of debtor and creditor is abhorrent to me. If I

  promise to pay a man money, and fail to keep my promise, I am no better

  than a liar and a cheat. That always has been, and always will be, _my_

  view." He took her hand again as he made that strong declaration. "There

  is another bond of sympathy between us," he said warmly; "you think as I

  do."

  Good Heavens, if Frau Meyer had told me the truth, what would happen when

  Madame Fontaine discovered that her promissory note was in the hands of a

  stranger--a man who would inexorably present it for payment on the day

  when it fell due? I tried to persuade myself that Frau Meyer had _not_

  told me the truth. Perhaps I might have succeeded--but for my remembrance

  of the disreputable-looking stranger on the door-step, who had been so

  curious to know if Madame Fontaine intended to leave her lodgings.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The next day, my calculation of possibilities in the matter of Fritz

  turned out to be correct.

  Returning to Main Street, after a short absence from the house, the door

  was precipitately opened to me by Minna. Before she could say a word, her

  face told me the joyful news. Before I could congratulate her, Fritz

  himself burst headlong into the hall, and made one of his desperate

  attempts at embracing me. This time I succeeded (being the shorter man of

  the two) in slipping through his arms in the nick of time.

  "Do you want to kiss _me,"_ I exclaimed, "when Minna is in the house!"

  "I have been kissing Minna," Fritz answered with perfect gravity, until

  we are both of us out of breath. I look upon you as a sort of

  safety-valve."

  At this, Minna's charming face became eloquent in another way. I only

  waited to ask for news of my aunt before I withdrew. Mrs. Wagner was

  already on the road to Frankfort, following Fritz by easy stages.

  "And where is Jack Straw?" I inquired.

  "Traveling with her," said Fritz.

  Having received this last extraordinary piece of intelligence, I put off

  all explanations until a fitter opportunity, and left the lovers together

  until dinner-time.

  It was one of the last fine days of the autumn. The sunshine tempted me

  to take a turn in Mr. Engelman's garden.

  A shrubbery of evergreens divided the lawn near the house from the

  flower-beds which occupied the further extremity of the plot of ground.

  While I was on one side of the shrubbery, I heard the voices of Mr.

  Keller and Madame Fontaine on the other side. Then, and then only, I

  remembered that the doctor had suggested a little walking exercise for

  the invalid, while the sun was at its warmest in the first hours of the

  afternoon. Madame Fontaine was in attendance, in the absence of Mr.

  Engelman, engaged in the duties of the office.

  I had just turned back again towards the house, thinking it better not to

  disturb them, when I heard my name on the widow's lips. Better men than

  I, under stress of temptation, have been known to commit actions unworthy

  of them. I was mean enough to listen; and I paid the proverbial penalty

  for gratifying my curiosity--I heard no good of myself.

  "You have honored me by asking my advice, sir," I heard Madame Fontaine

  say. "With regard to young David Glenney, I can speak quite impartially.

  In a few days more, if I can be of no further use to you, I shall have

  left the house."

  Mr. Keller interrupted her there.

  "Pardon me, Madame Fontaine; I can't let you talk of leaving us. We are

  without a housekeeper, as you know. You will confer a favor on me and on

  Mr. Engelman, if you will kindly undertake the direction of our domestic

  affairs--for the present, at least. Besides, your charming daughter is

  the light of our household. What will Fritz say, if you take her away

  just when he has come home? No! no! you and Minna must stay with us."

  "You are only too good to me, sir! Perhaps I had better ascertain what

  Mr. Engelman's wishes are, before we decide?"

  Mr. Keller laughed--and, more extraordinary still, Mr. Keller made a

  little joke.

  "My dear madam, if you don't know what Mr. Engelman's wishes are likely

  to be, without asking him, you are the most unobservant lady that ever

  lived! Speak to him, by all means, if you think it formally

  necessary--and let us return to the question of taking David Glenney into

  our office here. A letter which he has lately received from Mrs. Wagner

  expresses no intention of recalling him to London--and he has managed so

  cleverly in a business matter which I confided to him, that he would

  really be an acquisition to us. Besides (until the marriage takes place),

  he would be a companion for Fritz."

  "That is exactly where I feel a difficulty," Madame Fontaine replied. "To

  my mind, sir, Mr. David is not at all a desirable companion for your son.

  The admirable candor and simplicity of Fritz's disposition might suffer

  by association with a person of Mr. David's very peculiar character."

  "May I ask, Madame Fontaine, in what you think his character peculiar?"

  "I will endeav
or to express what I feel, sir. You have spoken of his

  cleverness. I venture to say that he is _too_ clever And I have observed

  that he is--for a young man--far too easily moved to suspect others. Do I

  make myself understood?"

  "Perfectly. Pray go on."

  "I find, Mr. Keller, that there is something of the Jesuit about our

  young friend. He has a way of refining on trifles, and seeing under the

  surface, where nothing is to be seen. Don't attach too much importance to

  what I say! It is quite likely that I am influenced by the popular

  prejudice against 'old heads on young shoulders.' At the same time, I

  confess I wouldn't keep him here, if I were in your place. Shall we move

  a little further on?"

  Madame Fontaine was, I daresay, perfectly right in her estimate of me.

  Looking back at the pages of this narrative, I discover some places in

  which I certainly appear to justify her opinion. I even justified it at

  the time. Before she and Mr. Keller were out of my hearing, I began to

  see "under the surface," and "to refine" on what she had said.

  Was it Jesuitical to doubt the disinterestedness of her advice? I did

  doubt it. Was it Jesuitical to suspect that she privately distrusted me,

  and had reasons of her own for keeping me out of her way, at the safe

  distance of London? I did suspect it.

  And yet she was such a good Christian! And yet she had so nobly and so

  undeniably saved Mr. Keller's life! What right had I to impute

  self-seeking motives to such a woman as this? Mean! mean! there was no

  excuse for me.

  I turned back to the house, with my head feeling very old on my young

  shoulders.

  Madame Fontaine's manner to me was so charming, when we all met at the

  dinner-table, that I fell into a condition of remorseful silence.

  Fortunately, Fritz took most of the talking on himself, and the general

  attention was diverted from me. His high spirits, his boisterous

  nonsense, his contempt for all lawful forms and ceremonies which placed

  impediments in the way of his speedy marriage, were amusingly contrasted

  by Mr. Engelman's courteous simplicity in trying to argue the question

  seriously with his reckless young friend.

  "Don't talk to me about the customary delays and the parson's duty!"

  cried Fritz. "Tell me this: does he do his duty without being paid for

  it?"

  "We must all live," pleaded good Mr. Engelman; "the parson must pay the

  butcher and the baker, like the rest of us."

  "That's shirking the question, my dear sir! Will the parson marry Minna

  and me, without being paid for it?"

  "In all civilized countries, Fritz, there are fees for the performance of

  the marriage ceremony."

  "Very well. Now follow my train of reasoning, Mr. Engelman! On your own

  showing, the whole affair is a matter of money. The parson gets his fee

  for making Minna my wife, after the customary delays."

  There Minna modestly interposed. "Why do you object to the customary

  delays, dear Fritz?"

  "I'll tell you, my angel, when we are married. In the meantime, I resume

  my train of reasoning, and I entreat Mr. Engelman not to forget that this

  is a matter of money. Make it worth the parson's while to marry us,

  _without_ the customary delays. Double his fee, treble his fee--give him

  ten times his fee. It's merely a question of what his reverence can

  resist. My father is a rich man. Favor me with a blank cheque, papa--and

  I will make Minna Mrs. Keller before the end of the week!"

  The father, hitherto content to listen and be amused, checked the son's

  flow of nonsense at this point.

  "There is a time for everything, Fritz," he said. "We have had laughing

  enough. When you talk of your marriage, I am sorry to observe that you

  entirely pass over the consideration which is due to your father's only

  surviving relative."

  Madame Fontaine laid down her knife and fork as if her dinner had come to

  an end. The sudden appearance in the conversation of the "surviving

  relative," had evidently taken her by surprise. Mr. Keller, observing

  her, turned away from his son, and addressed himself exclusively to the

  widow when he spoke next.

  "I referred, Madame Fontaine, to my elder sister," he said. "She and I

  are the sole survivors of a large family."

  "Does the lady live in this city, sir?" the widow inquired.

  "No, she still lives in our birthplace--Munich."

  "May I ask another question?"

  "As many questions, dear madam, as you like."

  "Is your sister married?"

  "My sister has never been married."

  "Not for want of suitors," said courteous Mr. Engelman. "A most majestic

  person. Witty and accomplished. Possessed of an enviable little fortune,

  entirely at her own disposal."

  Mr. Keller gently reproved this latter allusion to the question of money.

  "My good friend, Madame Fontaine has a mind above all mercenary

  considerations. My sister's place in her esteem and regard will not be

  influenced by my sister's fortune, when they meet (as I hope they will

  meet) at Fritz's marriage."

  At this, Fritz burst into the conversation in his usual headlong way.

  "Oh, dear me, papa, have some consideration for us! If we wait for my

  aunt, we shall never be married on this side of eternity."

  "Fritz!"

  "Don't be angry, sir, I meant no harm. I was thinking of my aunt's

  asthma. At her age, she will never take the long journey from Munich to

  Frankfort. Permit me to offer a suggestion. Let us be married first, and

  then pay her a visit in the honeymoon.

  Mr. Keller passed his son's suggestion over without notice, and addressed

  himself once more to Madame Fontaine.

  "I propose writing to my sister in a day or two," he resumed, "to inform

  her of the contemplated marriage. She already knows your name through Mr.

  Engelman, who kindly wrote to allay her anxiety about my illness."

  "And to tell her," Mr. Engelman interposed, "to whose devotion he owes

  his recovery."

  The widow received this tribute with eyes fixed modestly on her plate.

  Her black dress, rising and falling over her bosom, betrayed an

  agitation, which her enemies at Wurzburg might have attributed to the

  discovery of the rich sister at Munich. Mr. Keller went on--

  "I am sure I may trust to your womanly sympathies to understand the

  affection which binds me to my last living relative. My sister's presence

  at the marriage will be an inexpressible comfort and happiness to me. In

  spite of what my son has said (you are sadly given to talking at random,

  Fritz), I believe she will not shrink from the journey to Frankfort, if

  we only make it easier to her by consulting her health and convenience.

  Our young people have all their lives before them--our young people can

  wait."

  "Certainly, sir."

  She gave that short answer very quietly, with her eyes still on her

  plate. It was impossible to discover in what frame of mind she viewed the

  prospect of delay, involved in Mr. Keller's consideration for his sister.

  For the moment, Fritz was simply confounded. He looked at

  Min
na--recovered himself--and favored his father with another suggestion.

  "I have got it now!" he exclaimed. "Why not spare my aunt the fatigue of

  the journey? Let us all start for Bavaria to--morrow, and have the

  marriage at Munich!"

  "And leave the business at Frankfort to take care of itself, at the

  busiest time of the year!" his father added ironically. "When you open

  your mouth again, Fritz, put food and drink into it--and confine yourself

  to that."

  With those words the question of the marriage was closed for the time.

  When dinner was over, Mr. Keller retired, to take some rest in his own

  room. Fritz and his sweetheart left the house together, on an errand in

  which they were both equally interested--the purchase of the ring which

  was to typify Minna's engagement. Left alone with Mr. Engelman and the

  widow, I felt that I might be an obstacle to confidential conversation,

  and withdrew to the office. Though not regularly employed as one of the

  clerks, I had been admitted to serve as a volunteer, since my return from

  Hanau. In this way, I improved my experience of the details of our

  business, and I made some small return for the hospitable welcome which I

  had received from the two partners.

  Half an hour or more had passed, when some papers arrived from the bank,

  which required the signature of the firm. Mr. Engelman being still

  absent, the head-clerk, at my suggestion, proceeded to the dining-room

  with the papers in his charge.

  He came back again immediately, looking very much alarmed.

  "Pray go into the dining-room!" he said to me. "I am afraid something is

  seriously wrong with Mr. Engelman.

  "Do you mean that he is ill?" I asked.

  "I can hardly say. His arms are stretched out on the table, and his face

  is hidden on them. He paid no attention to me. I am almost afraid he was

  crying."

  Crying? I had left him in excellent spirits, casting glances of the

  tenderest admiration at Madame Fontaine. Without waiting to hear more, I

  ran to the dining-room.

  He was alone--in the position described by the clerk--and, poor old man,

  he was indeed weeping bitterly! I put my hand with all possible

  gentleness on his shoulder, and said, with the tenderness that I really

  felt for him: "Dear Mr. Engelman, what has happened to distress you?"

  At the sound of my voice he looked up, and caught me fervently by the

  hand.

  "Stay here with me a little while, David," he said. "I have got my

  death-blow."

  I sat down by him directly. "Try and tell me what has happened," I went

  on. "I left you here with Madame Fontaine----"

  His tears suddenly ceased; his hand closed convulsively on mine. "Don't

  speak of her," he cried, with an outburst of anger. "You were right about

  her, David. She is a false woman." As the words passed his lips, he

  changed again. His voice faltered; he seemed to be frightened by his own

  violent language. "Oh, what am I talking about! what right have I to say

  that of her! I am a brute--I am reviling the best of women. It was all my

  fault, David--I have acted like a madman, like a fool. Oh, my boy! my

  boy!--would you believe it?--I asked her to marry me!"

  It is needless to say that I wanted no further explanation. "Did she

  encourage you to ask her?" I inquired.

  "I thought she did, David--I thought I would be clever and seize the

  opportunity. She said she wanted to consult me. She said: 'Mr. Keller has

  asked me to stay here, and keep house for you; I have not given my answer

  yet, I have waited to know if you approved it.' Upon that, I said the

  rash words. I asked her to be more than our housekeeper--to be my wife. I

  am naturally stupid," said the poor simple gentleman; "whenever I try to