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
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
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?"