"Yes--if he can be spared from his duties in London. Is there anything I
can do for you, Madame Fontaine?"
"Nothing, thank you--except to excuse my intrusion. I am afraid I have
offended our little friend there, with the pretty straw hat in his hand,
and I want to make my peace with him."
Jack looked up from his work with an air of lofty disdain. "Oh, dear me,
it doesn't matter," he said, in his most magnificent manner.
"I was dressing when he knocked at my door," pursued Madame Fontaine;
"and I asked him to come back, and show me his keys in half an hour. Why
didn't you return, Jack? Won't you show me the keys now?"
"You see it's a matter of business," Jack replied as loftily as ever. "I
am in the business--Keeper of the Keys. Mistress is in the business; Mr.
Keller is in the business. You are not in the business. It doesn't
matter. Upon my soul, it doesn't matter."
Mrs. Wagner held up her forefinger reprovingly. "Jack! don't forget you
are speaking to a lady."
Jack audaciously put his hand to his head, as if this was an effort of
memory which was a little too much to expect of him.
"Anything to please you, Mistress," he said. "I'll show her the bag."
He exhibited to Madame Fontaine a leather bag, with a strap fastened
round it. "The keys are inside," he explained. "I wore them loose this
morning: and they made a fine jingle. Quite musical to _my_ ear. But
Mistress thought the noise likely to be a nuisance in the long run. So I
strapped them up in a bag to keep them quiet. And when I move about, the
bag hangs from my shoulder, like this, by another strap. When the keys
are wanted, I open the bag. You don't want them--you're not in the
business. Besides, I'm thinking of going out, and showing myself and my
bag in the fashionable quarter of the town. On such an occasion, I think
I ought to present the appearance of a gentleman--I ought to wear gloves.
Oh, it doesn't matter! I needn't detain you any longer. Good morning."
He made one of his fantastic bows, and waved his hand, dismissing Madame
Fontaine from further attendance on him. Secretly, he was as eager as
ever to show the keys. But the inordinate vanity which was still the mad
side of him and the incurable side of him, shrank from opening the
leather bag unless the widow first made a special request and a special
favor of it. Feeling no sort of interest in the subject, she took the
shorter way of making her peace with him. She took out her purse.
"Let me make you a present of the gloves," she said, with her
irresistible smile.
Jack lost all his dignity in an instant.
He leapt off the window seat and snatched at the money, like a famished
animal snatching at a piece of meat. Mrs. Wagner caught him by the arm,
and looked at him. He lifted his eyes to hers, then lowered them again as
if he was ashamed of himself.
"Oh, to be sure!" he said, "I have forgotten my manners, I haven't said
Thank you. A lapse of memory, I suppose. Thank you, Mrs. Housekeeper." In
a moment more, he and his bag were on their way to the fashionable
quarter of the town.
"You will make allowances for my poor little Jack, I am sure," said Mrs.
Wagner.
"My dear madam, Jack amuses me!"
Mrs. Wagner winced a little at the tone of the widow's reply. "I have
cured him of all the worst results of his cruel imprisonment in the
mad-house," she went on. "But his harmless vanity seems to be inbred; I
can do nothing with him on that side of his character. He is proud of
being trusted with anything, especially with keys; and he has been kept
waiting for them, while I had far more important matters to occupy me. In
a day or two he will be more accustomed to his great responsibility, as
he calls it."
"Of course you don't trust him," said Madame Fontaine, "with keys that
are of any importance; like the key of your desk there, for instance."
Mrs. Wagner's steady gray eyes began to brighten. "I can trust him with
anything," she answered emphatically.
Madame Fontaine arched her handsome brows in a mutely polite expression
of extreme surprise.
"In my experience of the world," Mrs. Wagner went on, "I have found that
the rarest of all human virtues is the virtue of gratitude. In a hundred
little ways my poor friendless Jack has shown me that he is grateful. To
my mind that is reason enough for trusting him."
"With money?" the widow inquired.
"Certainly. In London I trusted him with money--with the happiest
self-respect, which he thoroughly appreciated. As yet I have not given
him the key of my desk here, because I reserve it as a special reward for
good conduct. In a few days more I have no doubt he will add it to the
collection in his bag."
"Ah," said Madame Fontaine, with the humility which no living woman knew
better when and how to assume, "you understand these difficult
questions--you have your grand national common-sense. I am only a poor
limited German woman. But, as you say in England, 'Live and learn.' You
have indescribably interested me. Good morning."
She left the room. "Hateful woman!" she said in her own language, on the
outer side of the door.
"Humbug!" said Mrs. Wagner in her language, on the inner side of the
door.
If there had been more sympathy between the two ladies, or if Madame
Fontaine had felt a little curiosity on the subject of crazy Jack's keys,
she might have taken away with her some valuable materials for future
consideration. As it was, Mrs. Wagner had not troubled her with any
detailed narrative of the manner in which she had contrived to fill
Jack's leather bag.
In London, she had begun cautiously by only giving him some of the
useless old keys which accumulate about a house in course of years. When
the novelty of merely keeping them had worn off, and when he wanted to
see them put to some positive use, she had added one or two keys of her
own, and had flattered his pride by asking him to open the box or the
desk for her, as the case might be. Proceeding on the same wisely gradual
plan at Frankfort, she had asked Mr. Keller to help her, and had been
taken by him (while Jack was out of the way) to a lumber-room in the
basement of the house, on the floor of which several old keys were lying
about. "Take as many as you like," he had said; "they have been here, for
all I know, ever since the house was repaired and refurnished in my
grandfather's time, and they might be sold for old iron, if there were
only enough of them." Mrs. Wagner had picked up the first six keys that
presented themselves, arid had made Jack Straw the happiest of men. He
found no fault with them for being rusty. On the contrary, he looked
forward with delight to the enjoyment of cleaning away the rust. "They
shall be as bright as diamonds," he had said to his mistress, "before I
have done with them."
And what did Madame Fontaine lose, by failing to inform herself of such
trifles as these? She ne
ver discovered what she had lost. But she had not
done with Jack Straw yet.
CHAPTER IV
After leaving Mrs. Wagner, the widow considered with herself, and then
turned away from the commercial regions of the house, in search of her
daughter.
She opened the dining-room door, and found the bagatelle-board on the
table. Fritz and Minna were playing a game of the desultory sort--with
the inevitable interruptions appropriate to courtship.
"Are you coming to join us, mamma? Fritz is playing very badly."
"This sort of thing requires mathematical calculation," Fritz remarked;
"and Minna distracts my attention."
Madame Fontaine listened with a smile of maternal indulgence. "I am on my
way back to my room," she said. "If either of you happen to see Jack
Straw----"
"He has gone out," Fritz interposed. "I saw him through the window. He
started at a run--and then remembered his dignity, and slackened his pace
to a walk. How will he come back, I wonder?"
"He will come back with greater dignity than ever, Fritz. I have given
him the money to buy himself a pair of gloves. If you or Minna happen to
meet with him before I do, tell him he may come upstairs and show me his
new gloves. I like to indulge the poor imbecile creature. You mustn't
laugh at him--he is to be pitied."
Expressing these humane sentiments, she left the lovers to their game.
While Jack was still pleasurably excited by the new gift, he would be in
the right frame of mind to feel her influence. Now or never (if the thing
could be done) was the time to provide against the danger of
chance-allusions to what had happened at Wurzburg. It was well known in
the house that Mrs. Wagner wished to return to London, as soon after the
marriage as certain important considerations connected with the
management of the office would permit. By Madame Fontaine's calculations,
Jack would be happily out of the way of doing mischief (if she could keep
him quiet in the meanwhile) in a month or six weeks' time.
The game went on in the dining-room--with the inevitable intervals.
Beyond reproach as a lover, Fritz showed no signs of improvement as a
bagatelle-player. In a longer pause than usual, during which the persons
concerned happened to have their backs turned to the door, a disagreeable
interruption occurred. At a moment of absolute silence an intruding voice
made itself heard, inviting immediate attention in these words:--
"I say, you two! If you want to see the finest pair of gloves in
Frankfort, just look here."
There he stood with outstretched hands, exhibiting a pair of bright green
gloves, and standing higher in his own estimation than ever.
"Why do you always come in without knocking?" Fritz asked, with excusable
indignation.
"Why have _you_ always got your arm round her waist?" Jack retorted. "I
say, Miss Minna (I only offer a remark), the more he kisses you the more
you seem to like it."
"Send him away, for Heaven's sake!" Minna whispered.
"Go upstairs!" cried Fritz.
"What! do you want to be at it again?" asked Jack.
"Go and show your new gloves to Madame Fontaine," said Minna.
The girl's quick wit had discovered the right way to get rid of Jack. He
accepted the suggestion with enthusiasm. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "that's a
good idea! It would never have entered your head, Fritz, would it?"
Before Fritz could reply, Jack was out of his reach.
The widow sat in her room, innocently reading the newspaper. A cake
happened to be on the table at her side; and a bottle of sparkling
lemonade, by the merest coincidence, was in the near neighborhood of the
cake. Jack's eyes brightened, as they turned towards the table when he
entered the room.
"And those are the gloves!" said Madame Fontaine, with her head held
critically a little on one side, as if she was a connoisseur enjoying a
fine picture. "How very pretty! And what good taste you have!"
Jack (with his eyes still on the cake) accepted these flattering
expressions as no more than his due. "I am pleased with my walk," he
remarked. "I have made a successful appearance in public. When the
general attention was not occupied with my bag of keys, it was absorbed
in my gloves. I showed a becoming modesty--I took no notice of anybody."
"Perhaps your walk has given you a little appetite?" the widow suggested.
"What did you say?" cried Jack. "Appetite! Upon my soul, I could eat----
No, that's not gentleman-like. Mistress gave me one of her looks when I
said 'Upon my soul' down in the office. Thank you. Yes; I like cake.
Excuse me--I hope it has got plums in it?"
"Plums and other fine things besides. Taste!"
Jack tried hard to preserve his good manners, and only taste as he was
told. But the laws of Nature were too much for him. He was as fond of
sweet things as a child--he gobbled. "I say, you're uncommonly good to me
all of a sudden," he exclaimed between the bites. "You didn't make much
of me like this at Wurzburg!"
He had given Madame Fontaine her opportunity. She was not the woman to
let it slip. "Oh, Jack!" she said, in tones of gentle reproach, "didn't I
nurse you at Wurzburg?"
"Well," Jack admitted, "you did something of the sort."
"What do you mean?"
He had finished his first slice of cake; his politeness began to show
signs of wearing out.
"You did what my master the Doctor told you to do," he said. "But I don't
believe you cared whether I lived or died. When you had to tuck me up in
bed, for instance, you did it with the grossest indifference. Ha! you
have improved since that time. Give me some more cake. Never mind cutting
it thick. Is that bottle of lemonade for me?"
"You hardly deserve it, Jack, after the way you have spoken of me. Don't
you remember," she added, cautiously leading him back to the point, "I
used to make your lemonade when you were ill?"
Jack persisted in wandering away from the point. "You are so hungry for
compliments," he objected. "Haven't I told you that you have improved?
Only go on as you are going on now, and I dare say I shall put you next
to Mistress in my estimation, one of these days. Let the cork go out with
a pop; I like noises of all kinds. Your good health! Is it manners to
smack one's lips after lemonade?--it is such good stuff, and there's
_such_ pleasure in feeling it sting one's throat as it goes down. You
didn't give me such lemonade as this, when I was ill--Oh! that reminds
me."
"Reminds you of something that happened at Wurzburg?" Madame Fontaine
inquired.
"Yes. Wait a bit. I'm going to try how the cake tastes dipped in
lemonade. Ha! ha! how it fizzes as I stir it round! Yes; something that
happened at Wurzburg, as you say. I asked David about it, the morning he
went away. But the coach was waiting for him; and he ran off without
saying a word. I call that rude."
He was still stirring his lemonade with his bit of cake--or he might have
seen something in the widow's face that would have startled him. He did
look up, when she spoke to him. His sense of hearing was his quickest
sense; and he was struck by the sudden change in her voice.
"What did you ask David?"--was all she ventured to say.
Jack still looked at her. "Anything the matter with you?" he inquired.
"Nothing. What did you ask David?"
"Something I wanted to know."
"Perhaps _I_ can tell you what you want to know?"
"I shouldn't wonder. No: dipping the cake in lemonade doesn't improve it,
and it leaves crumbs in the drink."
"Throw away that bit of cake, Jack, and have some more.
"May I help myself?"
"Certainly. But you haven't told me yet what you want to know.
At last he answered directly. "What I want to know is this," he said.
"Who poisoned Mr. Keller?"
He was cutting the cake as he spoke, and extracted a piece of candied
orange peel with the point of the knife. Once more, the widow's face had
escaped observation. She turned away quickly, and occupied herself in
mending the fire. In this position, her back was turned towards the
table--she could trust herself to speak.
"You are talking nonsense!" she said.
Jack stopped--with the cake half-way to his mouth. Here was a direct
attack on his dignity, and he was not disposed to put up with it. "I
never talk nonsense," he answered sharply.
"You do," Madame Fontaine rejoined, just as sharply on her side. "Mr.
Keller fell ill, as anyone else might fall ill. Nobody poisoned him."
Jack got on his legs. For the moment he actually forgot the cake.
"Nobody?" he repeated. "Tell me this, if you please: Wasn't Mr. Keller
cured out of the blue-glass bottle--like me?"
(Who had told him this? Joseph might have told him; Minna might have told
him. It was no time for inquiry; the one thing needful was to eradicate
the idea from his mind. She answered boldly, "Quite right, so far"--and
waited to see what came of it.)
"Very well," said Jack, "Mr. Keller was cured out of the blue-glass
bottle, like me. And _I_ was poisoned. Now?"
She flatly contradicted him again. "You were _not_ poisoned!"
Jack crossed the room, with a flash of the old Bedlam light in his eyes,
and confronted her at the fire place. "The devil is the father of lies,"
he said, lifting his hand solemnly. "No lies! I heard my master the
Doctor say I was poisoned."
She was ready with her answer. "Your master the Doctor said that to
frighten you. He didn't want you to taste his medicines in his absence
again. You drank double what any person ought to have drunk, you greedy
Jack, when you tasted that pretty violet-colored medicine in your
master's workshop. And you had yourself to thank--not poison, when you
fell ill."
Jack looked hard at her. He could reason so far as that he and Mr. Keller
must have taken the same poison, because he and Mr. Keller had been cured
out of the same bottle. But to premise that he had been made ill by an
overdose of medicine, and that Mr. Keller had been made ill in some other
way, and then to ask, how two different illnesses could both have been
cured by the same remedy--was an effort utterly beyond him. He hung his
head sadly, and went back to the table.
"I wish I hadn't asked you about it," he said. "You puzzle me horribly."
But for that unendurable sense of perplexity, he would still have doubted
and distrusted her as resolutely as ever. As it was, his bewildered mind
unconsciously took its refuge in belief. "If it was medicine," asked the
poor creature vacantly, "what is the medicine good for?"
At those words, an idea of the devil's own prompting entered Madame
Fontaine's mind. Still standing at the fireplace, she turned her head