"Come in!" I entered the room.
There she was, seated at the bedside, smiling quietly and lifting her
finger to her lips! As certainly as I saw the familiar objects in the
room, and the prostrate figure on the bed, I saw--Madame Fontaine!
"Speak low," she said. "He sleeps very lightly; he must not be
disturbed."
I approached the bed and looked at him. There was a faint tinge of color
in his face; there was moisture on his forehead; his hands lay as still
on the counterpane, in the blessed repose that possessed him, as the
hands of a sleeping child. I looked round at Madame Fontaine.
She smiled again; my utter bewilderment seemed to amuse her. "He is left
entirely to me, David," she said, looking tenderly at her patient. "Go
downstairs and see Mr. Engelman. There must be no talking here."
She lightly wiped the perspiration from his forehead; lightly laid her
fingers on his pulse--then reclined in the easy chair, with her eyes
fixed in silent interest on the sleeping man. She was the very ideal of
the nurse with fine feelings and tender hands, contemplated by Doctor
Dormann when I had last seen him. Any stranger looking into the room at
that moment would have said, "What a charming picture! What a devoted
wife!"
CHAPTER XIX
"A tumbler of the old Marcobrunner, David, and a slice of the game
pie--before I say one word about what we owe to that angel upstairs. Off
with the wine, my dear boy; you look as pale as death!"
With those words Mr. Engelman lit his pipe, and waited in silence until
the good eating and drinking had done their good work.
"Now carry your mind back to last night," he began. "You remember my
going out to get a breath of fresh air. Can you guess what that meant?"
I guessed of course that it meant a visit to Madame Fontaine.
"Quite right, David. I promised to call on her earlier in the day; but
poor Keller's illness made that impossible. She wrote to me under the
impression that something serious must have happened to prevent me, for
the first time, from keeping an appointment that I had made with her.
When I left you I went to answer her note personally. She was not only
distressed to hear of Mr. Keller's illness, she was interested enough in
my sad news to ask particularly in what form the illness declared itself.
When I mentioned what the symptoms were, she showed an agitation which
took me quite by surprise. 'Do the doctors understand what is the matter
with him?' she asked. I told her that one of the doctors was evidently
puzzled, and that the other had acknowledged that the malady was so far
incomprehensible to him. She clasped her hands in despair--she said, 'Oh,
if my poor husband had been alive!' I naturally asked what she meant. I
wish I could give her explanation, David, in her own delightful words. It
came in substance to this. Some person in her husband's employment at the
University of Wurzburg had been attacked by a malady presenting exactly
the same symptoms from which Mr. Keller was suffering. The medical men
had been just as much at a loss what to do as our medical men. Alone
among them Doctor Fontaine understood the case. He made up the medicine
that he administered with his own hand. Madame Fontaine, under her
husband's instructions, assisted in nursing the sick man, and in giving
the nourishment prescribed when he was able to eat. His extraordinary
recovery is remembered in the University to this day."
I interrupted Mr. Engelman at that point. "Of course you asked her for
the prescription?" I said. "I begin to understand it now."
"No, David; you don't understand it yet. I certainly asked her for the
prescription. No such thing was known to be in existence--she reminded me
that her husband had made up the medicine himself. But she remembered
that the results had exceeded his anticipations, and that only a part of
the remedy had been used. The bottle might still perhaps be found at
Wurzburg. Or it might be in a small portmanteau belonging to her husband,
which she had found in his bedroom, and had brought away with her, to be
examined at some future time. 'I have not had the heart to open it yet,'
she said; 'but for Mr. Keller's sake, I will look it over before you go
away.' There is a Christian woman, David, if ever there was one yet!
After the manner in which poor Keller had treated her, she was as eager
to help him as if he had been her dearest friend. Minna offered to take
her place. 'Why should you distress yourself, mamma?' she said. 'Tell me
what the bottle is like, and let me try if I can find it.' No! It was
quite enough for Madame Fontaine that there was an act of mercy to be
I interrupted him again, eager to hear the end.
"And she found the bottle?" I said.
"She found the bottle," Mr. Engelman resumed. "I can show it to you, if
you like. She has herself requested me to keep it under lock and key, so
long as it is wanted in this house."
He opened an old cabinet, and took out a long narrow bottle of dark-blue
glass. In form, it was quaintly and remarkably unlike any modern bottle
that I had ever seen. The glass stopper was carefully secured by a piece
of leather, for the better preservation, I suppose, of the liquid inside.
Down one side of the bottle ran a narrow strip of paper, notched at
regular intervals to indicate the dose that was to be given. No label
appeared on it; but, examining the surface of the glass carefully, I
found certain faintly-marked stains, which suggested that the label might
have been removed, and that some traces of the paste or gum by which it
had been secured had not been completely washed away. I held the bottle
up to the light, and found that it was still nearly half full. Mr.
Engelman forbade me to remove the stopper. It was very important, he
said, that no air should be admitted to the bottle, except when there was
an actual necessity for administering the remedy.
"I took it away with me the same night," he went on. "And a wretched
state of mind I was in, between my anxiety to give the medicine to poor
dear Keller immediately, and my fear of taking such a serious
responsibility entirely on myself. Madame Fontaine, always just in her
views, said, 'You had better wait and consult the doctors.' She made but
one condition (the generous creature!) relating to herself. 'If the
remedy is tried,' she said, 'I must ask you to give it a fair chance by
permitting me to act as nurse; the treatment of the patient when he
begins to feel the benefit of the medicine is of serious importance. I
know this from my husband's instructions, and it is due to his memory (to
say nothing of what is due to Mr. Keller) that I should be at the
bedside.' It is needless to say that I joyfully accepted the offered
help. So the night passed. The next morning, soon after you fell asleep,
the doctors came. You may imagine what they thought of poor Keller, when
I tell you that they recommended me to write instantly to Fritz in London
summoning him to his father's bedside. I was just in
time to catch the
special mail which left this morning. Don't blame me, David. I could not
feel absolutely sure of the new medicine; and, with time of such terrible
importance, and London so far off, I was really afraid to miss a post."
I was far from blaming him--and I said so. In his place I should have
done what he did. We arranged that I should write to Fritz by that
night's mail, on the chance that my announcement of the better news might
reach him before he left London.
"My letter despatched," Mr. Engelman continued, "I begged both the
doctors to speak with me before they went away, in my private room. There
I told them, in the plainest words I could find, exactly what I have told
you. Doctor Dormann behaved like a gentleman. He said, 'Let me see the
lady, and speak to her myself, before the new remedy is tried.' As for
the other, what do you think he did? Walked out of the house (the old
brute!) and declined any further attendance on the patient. And who do
you think followed him out of the house, David, when I sent for Madame
Fontaine? Another old brute--Mother Barbara!"
After what I had seen myself of the housekeeper's temper on the previous
evening, this last piece of news failed to surprise me. To be stripped of
her authority as nurse in favor of a stranger, and that stranger a
handsome lady, was an aggravation of the wrong which Mother Barbara had
contemplated, when she threatened us with the alternative of leaving the
house.
"Well," Mr. Engelman resumed, "Doctor Dormann asked his questions, and
smelt and tasted the medicine, and with Madame Fontaine's full approval
took away a little of it to be analyzed. That came to nothing! The
medicine kept its own secret. All the ingredients but two set analysis at
defiance! In the meantime we gave the first dose. Half an hour since we
tried the second. You have seen the result with your own eyes. She has
saved his life, David, and we have you to thank for it. But for you we
might never have known Madame Fontaine.
The door opened as he spoke, and I found myself confronted by a second
surprise. Minna came in, wearing a cook's apron, and asked if her mother
the peculiar vegetable diet which had been prescribed by Doctor Fontaine
as part of the cure. The good girl was eager to make herself useful to us
in any domestic capacity. What a charming substitute for the crabbed old
housekeeper who had just left us!
So here were Madame Fontaine and Minna actually established as inmates
under the same roof with Mr. Keller! What would Fritz think, when he knew
of it? What would Mr. Keller say when he recognized his nurse, and when
he heard that she had saved his life? "All's well that ends well" is a
good proverb. But we had not got as far as that yet. The question in our
case was, _How_ will it end?
CHAPTER XX
When, late that night, I entered my bedroom again, how I blessed the
lucky accident of my six hours' sleep, after a night's watching at Mr.
Keller's bedside!
If I had spoken to Doctor Dormann as I had positively resolved to speak,
he would, beyond all doubt, have forbidden the employment of Madame
Fontaine's remedy; Mr. Keller would have died; and the innocent woman who
had saved his life would have been suspected, perhaps even tried, on a
charge of murdering him. I really trembled when I looked back on the
terrible consequences which must have followed, if I had succeeded that
morning in keeping myself awake.
The next day, the doses of the wonderful medicine were renewed at the
regular intervals; and the prescribed vegetable diet was carefully
administered. On the day after, the patient was so far advanced on the
way to recovery, that the stopper of the dark-blue bottle was permanently
secured again under its leather guard. Mr. Engelman told me that nearly
two doses of it were still left at the bottom. He also mentioned, on my
asking to look at it again, that the widow had relieved him of the care
of the bottle, and had carefully locked it up in her own room.
Late on this day also, the patient being well-enough to leave his bed and
to occupy the armchair in his room, the inevitable disclosure took place;
and Madame Fontaine stood revealed in the character of the Good Samaritan
who had saved Mr. Keller's life.
By Doctor Dormann's advice, those persons only were permitted to enter
the bedroom whose presence was absolutely necessary. Besides Madame
Fontaine and the doctor himself, Mr. Engelman and Minna were the other
witnesses of the scene. Mr. Engelman had his claim to be present as an
old friend; and Minna was to be made useful, at her mother's suggestion,
as a means of gently preparing Mr. Keller's mind for the revelation that
was to come. Under these circumstances, I can only describe what took
place, by repeating the little narrative with which Minna favored me,
after she had left the room.
"We arranged that I should wait downstairs," she said, "until I heard the
bedroom bell ring--and then I myself was to take up Mr. Keller's dinner
of lentils and cream, and put it on his table without saying a word."
"Exactly like a servant!" I exclaimed.
Gentle sweet-tempered Minna answered my foolish interruption with her
customary simplicity and good sense.
"Why not?" she asked. "Fritz's father may one day be my father; and I am
happy to be of the smallest use to him, whenever he wants me. Well, when
I went in, I found him in his chair, with the light let into the room,
and with plenty of pillows to support him. Mr. Engelman and the doctor
were on either side of him; and poor dear mamma was standing back in a
corner behind the bed, where he could not see her. He looked up at me,
when I came in with my tray. 'Who's this?' he asked of Mr. Engelman--'is
she a new servant?' Mr. Engelman, humoring him, answered, 'Yes.' 'A
nice-looking girl,' he said; 'but what does Mother Barbara say to her?'
Upon this, Mr. Engelman told him how the housekeeper had left her place
and why. As soon as he had recovered his surprise, he looked at me again.
'But who has been my nurse?' he inquired; 'surely not this young girl?'
'No, no; the young girl's mother has nursed you,' said Mr. Engelman. He
looked at the doctor as he spoke; and the doctor interfered for the first
time. 'She has not only nursed you, sir,' he said; 'I can certify
medically that she has saved your life. Don't excite yourself. You shall
hear exactly how it happened.' In two minutes, he told the whole story,
so clearly and beautifully that it was quite a pleasure to hear him. One
thing only he concealed--the name. 'Who is she?' Mr. Keller cried out.
'Why am I not allowed to express my gratitude? Why isn't she here?' 'She
is afraid to approach you, sir,' said the doctor; 'you have a very bad
opinion of her.' 'A bad opinion,' Mr. Keller repeated, 'of a woman I
don't know? Who is the slanderer who has said that of me?' The doctor
signed to Mr. Engelman to answer. 'Speak plainly,' he whispered, behind
the c
hair. Mr. Engelman did speak plainly. 'Pardon me, my dear Keller,
there is no slanderer in this matter. Your own action has spoken for you.
A short time since--try if you cannot remember it yourself--a lady sent a
letter to you; and you sent the letter back to her, refusing to read it.
Do you know how she has returned the insult? That noble creature is the
woman to whom you owe your life.' When he had said those words, the
doctor crossed the room, and returned again to Mr. Keller, leading my
mother by the hand."
Minna's voice faltered; she stopped at the most interesting part of her
narrative.
"What did Mr. Keller say?" I asked.
"There was silence in the room," Minna answered softly. "I heard nothing
except the ticking of the clock."
"But you must have seen something?"
"No, David. I couldn't help it--I was crying. After a while, my mother
put her arm round me and led me to Mr. Keller. I dried my eyes as well as
I could, and saw him again. His head was bent down on his breast--his
hands hung helpless over the arms of the chair--it was dreadful to see
him so overwhelmed by shame and sorrow! 'What can I do?' he groaned to
himself. 'God help me, what can I do?' Mamma spoke to him--so sweetly and
so prettily--'You can give this poor girl of mine a kiss, sir; the new
servant who has waited on you is my daughter Minna.' He looked up
quickly, and drew me to him. 'I can make but one atonement, my dear,' he
said--and then he kissed me, and whispered, 'Send for Fritz.' Oh, don't
ask me to tell you any more, David; I shall only begin crying again--and
I am so happy!"
She left me to write to Fritz by that night's post. I tried vainly to
induce her to wait a little. We had no electric telegraphs at our
disposal, and we were reduced to guessing at events. But there was
certainly a strong probability that Fritz might have left London
immediately on the receipt of Mr. Engelman's letter, announcing that his
father was dangerously ill. In this case, my letter, despatched by the
next mail to relieve his anxiety, would be left unopened in London; and
Fritz might be expected to arrive (if he traveled without stopping) in
the course of the next day or two. I put this reasonable view of the
matter to Minna, and received a thoroughly irrational and womanly reply.
"I don't care, David; I shall write to him, for all that."
"Why?"
"Because I like writing to him.
"What! whether he receives your letter or not?"
"Whether he receives it or not," she answered saucily, "I shall have the
pleasure of writing to him--that is all I want."
She covered four pages of note-paper, and insisted on posting them
herself.
The next morning Mr. Keller was able, with my help and Mr. Engelman's, to
get downstairs to the sitting-room. We were both with him, when Madame
Fontaine came in.
"Well," he asked, "have you brought it with you?"
She handed to him a sealed envelope, and then turned to explain herself
to me.
"The letter that you put on Mr. Keller's desk," she said pleasantly.
"This time, David, I act as my own postman--at Mr. Keller's request."
In her place, I should certainly have torn it up. To keep it, on the bare
chance of its proving to be of some use in the future, seemed to imply
either an excessive hopefulness or an extraordinary foresight, on the
widow's part. Without in the least comprehending my own state of mind, I
felt that she had, in some mysterious way, disappointed me by keeping
that letter. As a matter of course, I turned to leave the room, and Mr.
Engelman (from a similar motive of delicacy) followed me to the door. Mr.
Keller called us both back.
"Wait, if you please," he said, "until I have read it."