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Jezebel's Daughter

by Wilkie Collins · English · Gutenberg #3633 · 583,571 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Jezebel's Daughter

Author: Wilkie Collins


        
Release date: January 1, 2003 [eBook #3633]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3633

Credits: Produced by James Rusk.  HTML version by Al Haines.


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Produced by James Rusk.  HTML version by Al Haines.








JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER


by

Wilkie Collins




TO ALBERTO CACCIA

Let me begin by informing you, that this new novel does not present the
proposed sequel to my last work of fiction--"The Fallen Leaves."

The first part of that story has, through circumstances connected with
the various forms of publications adopted thus far, addressed itself to a
comparatively limited class of readers in England. When the book is
finally reprinted in its cheapest form--then, and then only, it will
appeal to the great audience of the English people. I am waiting for that
time, to complete my design by writing the second part of "The Fallen
Leaves."

Why?

Your knowledge of English Literature--to which I am indebted for the
first faithful and intelligent translation of my novels into the Italian
language--has long since informed you, that there are certain important
social topics which are held to be forbidden to the English novelist (no
matter how seriously and how delicately he may treat them), by a
narrow-minded minority of readers, and by the critics who flatter their
prejudices. You also know, having done me the honor to read my books,
that I respect my art far too sincerely to permit limits to be wantonly
assigned to it, which are imposed in no other civilized country on the
face of the earth. When my work is undertaken with a pure purpose, I
claim the same liberty which is accorded to a writer in a newspaper, or
to a clergyman in a pulpit; knowing, by previous experience, that the
increase of readers and the lapse of time will assuredly do me justice,
if I have only written well enough to deserve it.

In the prejudiced quarters to which I have alluded, one of the characters
in "The Fallen Leaves" offended susceptibilities of the sort felt by
Tartuffe, when he took out his handkerchief, and requested Dorine to
cover her bosom. I not only decline to defend myself, under such
circumstances as these--I say plainly, that I have never asserted a truer
claim to the best and noblest sympathies of Christian readers than in
presenting to them, in my last novel, the character of the innocent
victim of infamy, rescued and purified from the contamination of the
streets. I remember what the nasty posterity of Tartuffe, in this
country, said of "Basil," of "Armadale," of "The New Magdalen," and I
know that the wholesome audience of the nation at large has done liberal
justice to those books. For this reason, I wait to write the second part
of "The Fallen Leaves," until the first part of the story has found its
way to the people.



Turning for a moment to the present novel, you will (I hope) find two
interesting studies of humanity in these pages.

In the character called "Jack Straw," you have the exhibition of an
enfeebled intellect, tenderly shown under its lightest and happiest
aspect, and used as a means of relief in some of the darkest scenes of
terror and suspense occurring in this story. Again, in "Madame Fontaine,"
I have endeavored to work out the interesting moral problem, which takes
for its groundwork the strongest of all instincts in a woman, the
instinct of maternal love, and traces to its solution the restraining and
purifying influence of this one virtue over an otherwise cruel, false,
and degraded nature.

The events in which these two chief personages play their parts have been
combined with all possible care, and have been derived, to the best of my
ability, from natural and simple causes. In view of the distrust which
certain readers feel, when a novelist builds his fiction on a foundation
of fact, it may not be amiss to mention (before I close these lines),
that the accessories of the scenes in the Deadhouse of Frankfort have
been studied on the spot. The published rules and ground-plans of that
curious mortuary establishment have also been laid on my desk, as aids to
memory while I was writing the closing passages of the story.

With this, I commend "Jezebel's Daughter" to my good friend and brother
in the art--who will present this last work also to the notice of Italian
readers.

W. C.

Gloucester Place, London:

February 9, 1880.




PART I

MR. DAVID GLENNEY CONSULTS HIS MEMORY AND OPENS THE STORY

CHAPTER I

In the matter of Jezebel's Daughter, my recollections begin with the
deaths of two foreign gentlemen, in two different countries, on the same
day of the same year.

They were both men of some importance in their way, and both strangers to
each other.

Mr. Ephraim Wagner, merchant (formerly of Frankfort-on-the-Main), died in
London on the third day of September, 1828.

Doctor Fontaine--famous in his time for discoveries in experimental
chemistry--died at Wurzburg on the third day of September, 1828.

Both the merchant and the doctor left widows. The merchant's widow (an
Englishwoman) was childless. The doctor's widow (of a South German
family) had a daughter to console her.

At that distant time--I am writing these lines in the year 1878, and
looking back through half a century--I was a lad employed in Mr. Wagner's
office. Being his wife's nephew, he most kindly received me as a member
of his household. What I am now about to relate I saw with my own eyes
and heard with my own ears. My memory is to be depended on. Like other
old men, I recollect events which happened at the beginning of my career
far more clearly than events which happened only two or three years
since.



Good Mr. Wagner had been ailing for many months; but the doctors had no
immediate fear of his death. He proved the doctors to be mistaken; and
took the liberty of dying at a time when they all declared that there was
every reasonable hope of his recovery. When this affliction fell upon his
wife, I was absent from the office in London on a business errand to our
branch-establishment at Frankfort-on-the-Main, directed by Mr. Wagner's
partners. The day of my return happened to be the day after the funeral.
It was also the occasion chosen for the reading of the will. Mr. Wagner,
I should add, had been a naturalized British citizen, and his will was
drawn by an English lawyer.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth clauses of the will are the only portions of
the document which it is necessary to mention in this place.

The fourth clause left the whole of the testator's property, in lands and
in money, absolutely to his widow. In the fifth clause he added a new
proof of his implicit confidence in her--he appointed her sole executrix
of his will.

The sixth and last clause began in these words:--

"During my long illness, my dear wife has acted as my secretary and
representative. She has made herself so thoroughly well acquainted with
the system on which I have conducted my business, that she is the fittest
person to succeed me. I not only prove the fullness of my trust in her
and the sincerity of my gratitude towards her, but I really act in the
best interests of the firm of which I am the head, when I hereby appoint
my widow as my sole successor in the business, with all the powers and
privileges appertaining thereto."

The lawyer and I both looked at my aunt. She had sunk back in her chair;
her face was hidden in her handkerchief. We waited respectfully until she
might be sufficiently recovered to communicate her wishes to us. The
expression of her husband's love and respect, contained in the last words
of the will, had completely overwhelmed her. It was only after she had
been relieved by a burst of tears that she was conscious of our presence,
and was composed enough to speak to us.

"I shall be calmer in a few days' time," she said. "Come to me at the end
of the week. I have something important to say to both of you."

The lawyer ventured on putting a question. "Does it relate in any way to
the will?" he inquired.

She shook her head. "It relates," she answered, "to my husband's last
wishes."

She bowed to us, and went away to her own room.

The lawyer looked after her gravely and doubtfully as she disappeared.
"My long experience in my profession," he said, turning to me, "has
taught me many useful lessons. Your aunt has just called one of those
lessons to my mind.

"May I ask what it is, sir?"

"Certainly." He took my arm and waited to repeat the lesson until we had
left the house; "Always distrust a man's last wishes on his
death-bed--unless they are communicated to his lawyer, and expressed in
his will."

At the time, I thought this rather a narrow view to take. How could I
foresee that coming events in the future life of my aunt would prove the
lawyer to be right? If she had only been content to leave her husband's
plans and projects where he had left them at his death, and if she had
never taken that rash journey to our branch office at Frankfort--but what
is the use of speculating on what might or might not have happened? My
business in these pages is to describe what did happen. Let me return to
my business.



CHAPTER II

At the end of the week we found the widow waiting to receive us.

To describe her personally, she was a little lady, with a remarkably
pretty figure, a clear pale complexion, a broad low forehead, and large,
steady, brightly-intelligent gray eyes. Having married a man very much
older than herself, she was still (after many years of wedded life) a
notably attractive woman. But she never seemed to be conscious of her
personal advantages, or vain of the very remarkable abilities which she
did unquestionably possess. Under ordinary circumstances, she was a
singularly gentle, unobtrusive creature. But let the occasion call for
it, and the reserves of resolution in her showed themselves instantly. In
all my experience I have never met with such a firm woman, when she was
once roused.

She entered on her business with us, wasting no time in preliminary
words. Her face showed plain signs, poor soul, of a wakeful and tearful
night. But she claimed no indulgence on that account. When she spoke of
her dead husband--excepting a slight unsteadiness in her voice--she
controlled herself with a courage which was at once pitiable and
admirable to see.

"You both know," she began, "that Mr. Wagner was a man who thought for
himself. He had ideas of his duty to his poor and afflicted
fellow-creatures which are in advance of received opinions in the world
about us. I love and revere his memory--and (please God) I mean to carry
out his ideas."

The lawyer began to look uneasy. "Do you refer, madam, to Mr. Wagner's
political opinions?" he inquired.

Fifty years ago, my old master's political opinions were considered to be
nothing less than revolutionary. In these days--when his Opinions have
been sanctioned by Acts of Parliament, with the general approval of the
nation--people would have called him a "Moderate Liberal," and would have
set him down as a discreetly deliberate man in the march of modern
progress.

"I have nothing to say about politics," my aunt answered. "I wish to
speak to you, in the first place, of my husband's opinions on the
employment of women."

Here, again, after a lapse of half a century, my master's heresies of the
year 1828 have become the orthodox principles of the year 1878. Thinking
the subject over in his own independent way, he had arrived at the
conclusion that there were many employments reserved exclusively for men,
which might with perfect propriety be also thrown open to capable and
deserving women. To recognize the claims of justice was, with a man of
Mr. Wagner's character, to act on his convictions without a moment's
needless delay. Enlarging his London business at the time, he divided the
new employments at his disposal impartially between men and women alike.
The scandal produced in the city by this daring innovation is remembered
to the present day by old men like me. My master's audacious experiment
prospered nevertheless, in spite of scandal.

"If my husband had lived," my aunt continued, "it was his intention to
follow the example, which he has already set in London, in our house at
Frankfort. There also our business is increasing, and we mean to add to
the number of our clerks. As soon as I am able to exert myself, I shall
go to Frankfort, and give German women the same opportunities which my
husband has already given to English women in London. I have his notes on
the best manner of carrying out this reform to guide me. And I think of
sending you, David," she added, turning to me, "to our partners in
Frankfort, Mr. Keller and Mr. Engelman, with instructions which will keep
some of the vacant situations in the office open, until I can follow
you." She paused, and looked at the lawyer. "Do you see any objection to
what I propose?" she said.

"I see some risks," he answered, cautiously.

"What risks?"

"In London, madam, the late Mr. Wagner had special means of investigating
the characters of the women whom he took into his office. It may not be
so easy for you, in a strange place like Frankfort, to guard against the
danger----" He hesitated, at a loss for the moment to express himself
with sufficient plainness and sufficient delicacy.

My aunt made no allowances for his embarrassment.

"Don't be afraid to speak out, sir," she said, a little coldly. "What
danger are you afraid of?"

"Yours is a generous nature, madam: and generous natures are easily
imposed upon. I am afraid of women with bad characters, or, worse still,
of other women----"

He stopped again. This time there was a positive interruption. We heard a
knock at the door.

Our head-clerk was the person who presented himself at the summons to
come in. My aunt held up her hand. "Excuse me, Mr. Hartrey--I will attend
to you in one moment." She turned to the lawyer. "What other women are
likely to impose on me?" she asked.

"Women, otherwise worthy of your kindness, who may be associated with
disreputable connections," the lawyer replied. "The very women, if I know
anything of your quick sympathies, whom you would be most anxious to
help, and who might nevertheless be a source of constant trouble and
anxiety, under pernicious influences at home."

My aunt made no answer. For the moment, the lawyer's objections seemed to
annoy her. She addressed herself to Mr. Hartrey; asking rather abruptly
what he had to say to her.

Our head-clerk was a methodical gentleman of the old school. He began by
confusedly apologizing for his intrusion; and ended by producing a
letter.

"When you are able to attend to business, madam, honor me by reading this
letter. And, in the meantime, will you forgive me for taking a liberty in
the office, rather than intrude on your grief so soon after the death of
my dear and honored master?" The phrases were formal enough; but there
was true feeling in the man's voice as he spoke. My aunt gave him her
hand. He kissed it, with the tears in his eyes.

"Whatever you have done has been well done, I am sure," she said kindly.
"Who is the letter from?"

"From Mr. Keller, of Frankfort, madam."

My aunt instantly took the letter from him, and read it attentively. It
has a very serious bearing on passages in the present narrative which are
yet to come. I accordingly present a copy of it in this place:

"Private and confidential.

"Dear Mr. Hartrey,--It is impossible for me to address myself to Mrs.
Wagner, in the first days of the affliction that has fallen on her. I am
troubled by a pressing anxiety; and I venture to write to you, as the
person now in charge at our London office.

"My only son Fritz is finishing his education at the university of
Wurzburg. He has, I regret to say, formed an attachment to a young woman,
the daughter of a doctor at Wurzburg, who has recently died. I believe
the girl to be a perfectly reputable and virtuous young person. But her
father has not only left her in poverty, he has done worse--he has died
in debt. Besides this, her mother's character does not stand high in the
town. It is said, among other things, that her extravagance is mainly
answerable for her late husband's debts. Under these circumstances, I
wish to break off the connection while the two young people are separated
for the time by the event of the doctor's recent death. Fritz has given
up the idea of entering the medical profession, and has accepted my
proposal that he shall succeed me in our business. I have decided on
sending him to London, to learn something of commercial affairs, at
headquarters, in your office.

"My son obeys me reluctantly; but he is a good and dutiful lad--and he
yields to his father's wishes. You may expect him in a day or two after
receipt of these lines. Oblige me by making a little opening for him in
one of your official departments, and by keeping him as much as possible
under your own eye, until I can venture on communicating directly with
Mrs. Wagner--to whom pray convey the expression of my most sincere and
respectful sympathy."

My aunt handed back the letter. "Has the young man arrived yet?" she
asked.

"He arrived yesterday, madam."

"And have you found some employment for him?"

"I have ventured to place him in our corresponding department," the
head-clerk answered. "For the present he will assist in copying letters;
and, after business-hours, he will have a room (until further orders) in
my house. I hope you think I have done right, madam?"

"You have done admirably, Mr. Hartrey. At the same time, I will relieve
you of some of the responsibility. No grief of mine shall interfere with
my duty to my husband's partner. I will speak to the young man myself.
Bring him here this evening, after business-hours. And don't leave us
just yet; I want to put a question to you relating to my husband's
affairs, in which I am deeply interested." Mr. Hartrey returned to his
chair. After a momentary hesitation, my aunt put her question in terms
which took us all three by surprise.



CHAPTER III

"My husband was connected with many charitable institutions," the widow
began. "Am I right in believing that he was one of the governors of
Bethlehem Hospital?"

At this reference to the famous asylum for insane persons, popularly
known among the inhabitants of London as "Bedlam," I saw the lawyer
start, and exchange a look with the head-clerk. Mr. Hartrey answered with
evident reluctance; he said, "Quite right, madam"--and said no more. The
lawyer, being the bolder man of the two, added a word of warning,
addressed directly to my aunt.

"I venture to suggest," he said, "that there are circumstances connected
with the late Mr. Wagner's position at the Hospital, which make it
desirable not to pursue the subject any farther. Mr. Hartrey will confirm
what I say, when I tell you that Mr. Wagner's proposals for a reformation
in the treatment of the patients----"

"Were the proposals of a merciful man," my aunt interposed "who abhorred
cruelty in all its forms, and who held the torturing of the poor mad
patients by whips and chains to be an outrage on humanity. I entirely
agree with him. Though I am only a woman, I will not let the matter drop.
I shall go to the Hospital on Monday morning next--and my business with
you to-day is to request that you will accompany me."

"In what capacity am I to have the honor of accompanying you?" the lawyer
asked, in his coldest manner.

"In your professional capacity," my aunt replied. "I may have a proposal
to address to the governors; and I shall look to your experience to
express it in the proper form."

The lawyer was not satisfied yet. "Excuse me if I venture on making
another inquiry," he persisted. "Do you propose to visit the madhouse in
consequence of any wish expressed by the late Mr. Wagner?"

"Certainly not! My husband always avoided speaking to me on that
melancholy subject. As you have heard, he even left me in doubt whether
he was one of the governing body at the asylum. No reference to any
circumstance in his life which might alarm or distress me ever passed his
lips." Her voice failed her as she paid that tribute to her husband's
memory. She waited to recover herself. "But, on the night before his
death," she resumed, "when he was half waking, half dreaming, I heard him
talking to himself of something that he was anxious to do, if the chance
of recovery had been still left to him. Since that time I have looked at
his private diary; and I have found entries in it which explain to me
what I failed to understand clearly at his bedside. I know for certain
that the obstinate hostility of his colleagues had determined him on
trying the effect of patience and kindness in the treatment of mad
people, at his sole risk and expense. There is now in Bethlehem Hospital
a wretched man--a friendless outcast, found in the streets--whom my noble
husband had chosen as the first subject of his humane experiment, and
whose release from a life of torment he had the hope of effecting through
the influence of a person in authority in the Royal Household. You know
already that the memory of my husband's plans and wishes is a sacred
memory to me. I am resolved to see that poor chained creature whom he
would have rescued if he had lived; and I will certainly complete his
work of mercy, if my conscience tells me that a woman should do it."

Hearing this bold announcement--I am almost ashamed to confess it, in
these enlightened days--we all three protested. Modest Mr. Hartrey was
almost as loud and as eloquent as the lawyer, and I was not far behind
Mr. Hartrey. It is perhaps to be pleaded as an excuse for us that some of
the highest authorities, in the early part of the present century, would
have been just as prejudiced and just as ignorant as we were. Say what we
might, however, our remonstrances produced no effect on my aunt. We
merely roused the resolute side of her character to assert itself.

"I won't detain you any longer," she said to the lawyer. "Take the rest
of the day to decide what you will do. If you decline to accompany me, I
shall go by myself. If you accept my proposal, send me a line this
evening to say so."

In that way the conference came to an end.

Early in the evening young Mr. Keller made his appearance, and was
introduced to my aunt and to me. We both took a liking to him from the
first. He was a handsome young man, with light hair and florid
complexion, and with a frank ingratiating manner--a little sad and
subdued, in consequence, no doubt, of his enforced separation from his
beloved young lady at Wurzburg. My aunt, with her customary kindness and
consideration, offered him a room next to mine, in place of his room in
Mr. Hartrey's house. "My nephew David speaks German; and he will help to
make your life among us pleasant to you." With those words our good
mistress left us together.

Fritz opened the conversation with the easy self-confidence of a German
student.

"It is one bond of union between us that you speak my language," he
began. "I am good at reading and writing English, but I speak badly. Have
we any other sympathies in common? Is it possible that you smoke?"

Poor Mr. Wagner had taught me to smoke. I answered by offering my new
acquaintance a cigar.

"Another bond between us," cried Fritz. "We must be friends from this
moment. Give me your hand." We shook hands. He lit his cigar, looked at
me very attentively, looked away again, and puffed out his first mouthful
of smoke with a heavy sigh.

"I wonder whether we are united by a third bond?" he said thoughtfully.
"Are you a stiff Englishman? Tell me, friend David, may I speak to you
with the freedom of a supremely wretched man?"

"As freely as you like," I answered. He still hesitated.

"I want to be encouraged," he said. "Be familiar with me. Call me Fritz."

I called him "Fritz." He drew his chair close to mine, and laid his hand
affectionately on my shoulder. I began to think I had perhaps encouraged
him a little too readily.

"Are you in love, David?" He put the question just as coolly as if he had
asked me what o'clock it was.

I was young enough to blush. Fritz accepted the blush as a sufficient
answer. "Every moment I pass in your society," he cried with enthusiasm,
"I like you better--find you more eminently sympathetic. You are in love.
One word more--are there any obstacles in your way?"

There _were_ obstacles in my way. She was too old for me, and too poor
for me--and it all came to nothing in due course of time. I admitted the
obstacles; abstaining, with an Englishman's shyness, from entering into
details. My reply was enough, and more than enough, for Fritz. "Good
Heavens!" he exclaimed; "our destinies exactly resemble each other! We
are both supremely wretched men. David, I can restrain myself no longer;
I must positively embrace you!"

I resisted to the best of my ability--but he was the stronger man of the
two. His long arms almost strangled me; his bristly mustache scratched my
cheek. In my first involuntary impulse of disgust, I clenched my fist.
Young Mr. Keller never suspected (my English brethren alone will
understand) how very near my fist and his head were to becoming
personally and violently acquainted. Different nations--different
customs. I can smile as I write about it now.

Fritz took his seat again. "My heart is at ease; I can pour myself out
freely," he said. "Never, my friend, was there such an interesting
love-story as mine. She is the sweetest girl living. Dark, slim,
gracious, delightful, desirable, just eighteen. The image, I should
suppose, of what her widowed mother was at her age. Her name is Minna.
Daughter and only child of Madame Fontaine. Madame Fontaine is a truly
grand creature, a Roman matron. She is the victim of envy and scandal.
Would you believe it? There are wretches in Wurzburg (her husband the
doctor was professor of chemistry at the University)--there are wretches,
I say, who call my Minna's mother 'Jezebel,' and my Minna herself
'Jezebel's Daughter!' I have fought three duels with my fellow-students
to avenge that one insult. Alas, David, there is another person who is
influenced by those odious calumnies!--a person sacred to me--the honored
author of my being. Is it not dreadful? My good father turns tyrant in
this one thing; declares I shall never marry 'Jezebel's Daughter;' exiles
me, by his paternal commands, to this foreign country; and perches me on
a high stool to copy letters. Ha! he little knows my heart. I am my
Minna's and my Minna is mine. In body and soul, in time and in eternity,
we are one. Do you see my tears? Do my tears speak for me? The heart's
relief is in crying freely. There is a German song to that effect. When I
recover myself, I will sing it to you. Music is a great comforter; music
is the friend of love. There is another German song to _that_ effect." He
suddenly dried his eyes, and got on his feet; some new idea had
apparently occurred to him. "It is dreadfully dull here," he said; "I am
not used to evenings at home. Have you any music in London? Help me to
forget Minna for an hour or two. Take me to the music."

Having, by this time, heard quite enough of his raptures, I was eager on
my side for a change of any kind. I helped him to forget Minna at a
Vauxhall Concert. He thought our English orchestra wanting in subtlety
and spirit. On the other hand, he did full justice, afterwards, to our
English bottled beer. When we left the Gardens he sang me that German
song, 'My heart's relief is crying freely,' with a fervor of sentiment
which must have awakened every light sleeper in the neighborhood.

Retiring to my bedchamber, I found an open letter on my toilet-table. It
was addressed to my aunt by the lawyer; and it announced that he had
decided on accompanying her to the madhouse--without pledging himself to
any further concession. In leaving the letter for me to read, my aunt had
written across it a line in pencil: "You can go with us, David, if you
like."

My curiosity was strongly aroused. It is needless to say I decided on
being present at the visit to Bedlam.



CHAPTER IV

On the appointed Monday we were ready to accompany my aunt to the
madhouse.

Whether she distrusted her own unaided judgment, or whether she wished to
have as many witnesses as possible to the rash action in which she was
about to engage, I cannot say. In either case, her first proceeding was
to include Mr. Hartrey and Fritz Keller in the invitation already
extended to the lawyer and myself.

They both declined to accompany us. The head-clerk made the affairs of
the office serve for his apology, it was foreign post day, and he could
not possibly be absent from his desk. Fritz invented no excuses; he
confessed the truth, in his own outspoken manner. "I have a horror of mad
people," he said, "they so frighten and distress me, that they make me
feel half mad myself. Don't ask me to go with you--and oh, dear lady,
don't go yourself."

My aunt smiled sadly--and led the way out.

We had a special order of admission to the Hospital which placed the
resident superintendent himself at our disposal. He received my aunt with
the utmost politeness, and proposed a scheme of his own for conducting us
over the whole building; with an invitation to take luncheon with him
afterwards at his private residence.

"At another time, sir, I shall be happy to avail myself of your
kindness," my aunt said, when he had done. "For the present, my object is
to see one person only among the unfortunate creatures in this asylum."

"One person only?" repeated the superintendent. "One of our patients of
the higher rank, I suppose?"

"On the contrary," my aunt replied, "I wish to see a poor friendless
creature, found in the streets; known here, as I am informed, by no
better name than Jack Straw."

The superintendent looked at her in blank amazement.

"Good Heavens, madam!" he exclaimed; "are you aware that Jack Straw is
one of the most dangerous lunatics we have in the house?"

"I have heard that he bears the character you describe," my aunt quietly
admitted.

"And yet you wish to see him?"

"I am here for that purpose--and no other."

The superintendent looked round at the lawyer and at me, appealing to us
silently to explain, if we could, this incomprehensible desire to see
Jack Straw. The lawyer spoke for both of us. He reminded the
superintendent of the late Mr. Wagner's peculiar opinions on the
treatment of the insane, and of the interest which he had taken in this
particular case. To which my aunt added: "And Mr. Wagner's widow feels
the same interest, and inherits her late husband's opinions." Hearing
this, the superintendent bowed with his best grace, and resigned himself
to circumstances. "Pardon me if I keep you waiting for a minute or two,"
he said, and rang a bell.

A man-servant appeared at the door.

"Are Yarcombe and Foss on duty on the south side?" the superintendent
asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Send one of them here directly."

We waited a few minutes--and then a gruff voice became audible on the
outer side of the door. "Present, sir," growled the gruff voice.

The superintendent courteously offered his arm to my aunt. "Permit me to
escort you to Jack Straw," he said, with a touch of playful irony in his
tone.

We left the room. The lawyer and I followed my aunt and her escort. A
man, whom we found posted on the door-mat, brought up the rear. Whether
he was Yarcombe or whether he was Foss, mattered but little. In either
case he was a hulking, scowling, hideously ill-looking brute. "One of our
assistants," we heard the superintendent explain. "It is possible, madam,
that we may want two of them, if we are to make things pleasant at your
introduction to Jack Straw."

We ascended some stairs, shut off from the lower floor by a massive
locked door, and passed along some dreary stone passages, protected by
more doors. Cries of rage and pain, at one time distant and at another
close by, varied by yelling laughter, more terrible even than the cries,
sounded on either side of us. We passed through a last door, the most
solid of all, which shut out these dreadful noises, and found ourselves
in a little circular hall. Here the superintendent stopped, and listened
for a moment. There was dead silence. He beckoned to the attendant, and
pointed to a heavily nailed oaken door.

"Look in," he said.

The man drew aside a little shutter in the door, and looked through the
bars which guarded the opening.

"Is he waking or sleeping?" the superintendent asked.

"Waking, sir."

"Is he at work?"

"Yes, sir."

The superintendent turned to my aunt.

"You are fortunate, madam--you will see him in his quiet moments. He
amuses himself by making hats, baskets, and table-mats, out of his straw.
Very neatly put together, I assure you. One of our visiting physicians, a
man with a most remarkable sense of humor, gave him his nickname from his
work. Shall we open the door?"

My aunt had turned very pale; I could see that she was struggling with
violent agitation. "Give me a minute or two first," she said; "I want to
compose myself before I see him."

She sat down on a stone bench outside the door. "Tell me what you know
about this poor man?" she said. "I don't ask out of idle curiosity--I
have a better motive than that. Is he young or old?"

"Judging by his teeth," the superintendent answered, as if he had been
speaking of a horse, "he is certainly young. But his complexion is
completely gone, and his hair has turned gray. So far as we have been
able to make out (when he is willing to speak of himself), these
peculiarities in his personal appearance are due to a narrow escape from
poisoning by accident. But how the accident occurred, and where it
occurred, he either cannot or will not tell us. We know nothing about
him, except that he is absolutely friendless. He speaks English--but it
is with an odd kind of accent--and we don't know whether he is a
foreigner or not. You are to understand, madam, that he is here on
sufferance. This is a royal institution, and, as a rule, we only receive
lunatics of the educated class. But Jack Straw has had wonderful luck.
Being too mad, I suppose, to take care of himself, he was run over in one
of the streets in our neighborhood by the carriage of an exalted
personage, whom it would be an indiscretion on my part even to name. The
personage (an illustrious lady, I may inform you) was so distressed by
the accident--without the slightest need, for the man was not seriously
hurt--that she actually had him brought here in her carriage, and laid
her commands on us to receive him. Ah, Mrs. Wagner, her highness's heart
is worthy of her highness's rank. She occasionally sends to inquire after
the lucky lunatic who rolled under her horse's feet. We don't tell her
what a trouble and expense he is to us. We have had irons specially
invented to control him; and, if I am not mistaken," said the
superintendent, turning to the assistant, "a new whip was required only
last week."

The man put his hand into the big pocket of his coat, and produced a
horrible whip, of many lashes. He exhibited this instrument of torture
with every appearance of pride and pleasure. "This is what keeps him in
order, my lady," said the brute, cheerfully. "Just take it in your hand."

My aunt sprang to her feet. She was so indignant that I believe she would
have laid the whip across the man's shoulders, if his master had not
pushed him back without ceremony. "A zealous servant," said the
superintendent, smiling pleasantly. "Please excuse him."

My aunt pointed to the cell door.

"Open it," she said, "Let me see _anything,_ rather than set eyes on that
monster again!"

The firmness of her tone evidently surprised the superintendent. He knew
nothing of the reserves of resolution in her, which the mere sight of the
whip had called forth. The pallor had left her face; she trembled no
longer; her fine gray eyes were bright and steady. "That brute has roused
her," said the lawyer, looking back at the assistant, and whispering to
me; "nothing will restrain her, David--she will have her way now."



CHAPTER V

The superintendent opened the cell door with his own hand.

We found ourselves in a narrow, lofty prison, like an apartment in a
tower. High up, in one corner, the grim stone walls were pierced by a
grated opening, which let in air and light. Seated on the floor, in the
angle formed by the junction of two walls, we saw the superintendent's
"lucky lunatic" at work, with a truss of loose straw on either side of
him. The slanting rays of light from the high window streamed down on his
prematurely gray hair, and showed us the strange yellow pallor of his
complexion, and the youthful symmetry of his hands, nimbly occupied with
their work. A heavy chain held him to the wall. It was not only fastened
round his waist, it also fettered his legs between the knee and the
ankle. At the same time, it was long enough to allow him a range of
crippled movement, within a circle of five or six feet, as well as I
could calculate at the time. Above his head, ready for use if required,
hung a small chain evidently intended to confine his hands at the wrists.
Unless I was deceived by his crouching attitude, he was small in stature.
His ragged dress barely covered his emaciated form. In other and happier
days, he must have been a well-made little man; his feet and ankles, like
his hands, were finely and delicately formed. He was so absorbed in his
employment that he had evidently not heard the talking outside his cell.
It was only when the door was banged to by the assistant (who kept behind
us, at a sign from the superintendent) that he looked up. We now saw his
large vacantly-patient brown eyes, the haggard outline of his face, and
his nervously sensitive lips. For a moment, he looked from one to the
other of the visitors with a quiet childish curiosity. Then his wandering
glances detected the assistant, waiting behind us with the whip still in
his hand.

In an instant the whole expression of the madman's face changed.
Ferocious hatred glittered in his eyes; his lips, suddenly retracted,
showed his teeth like the teeth of a wild beast. My aunt perceived the
direction in which he was looking, and altered her position so as to
conceal from him the hateful figure with the whip, and to concentrate his
attention on herself. With startling abruptness, the poor creature's
expression changed once more. His eyes softened, a faint sad smile
trembled on his lips. He dropped the straw which he had been plaiting,
and lifted his hands with a gesture of admiration. "The pretty lady!" he
whispered to himself. "Oh, the pretty lady!"

He attempted to crawl out from the wall, as far as his chain would let
him. At a sign from the superintendent he stopped, and sighed bitterly.
"I wouldn't hurt the lady for the world," he said; "I beg your pardon,
Mistress, if I have frightened you."

His voice was wonderfully gentle. But there was something strange in his
accent--and there was perhaps a foreign formality in his addressing my
aunt as "Mistress." Englishmen in general would have called her "ma'am."

We men kept our places at a safe distance from his chain. My aunt, with a
woman's impulsive contempt of danger when her compassion is strongly
moved, stepped forward to him. The superintendent caught her by the arm
and checked her. "Take care," he said. "You don't know him as well as we
do."

Jack's eyes turned on the superintendent, dilating slowly. His lips began
to part again--I feared to see the ferocious expression in his face once
more. I was wrong. In the very moment of another outbreak of rage, the
unhappy man showed that he was still capable, under strong internal
influence, of restraining himself. He seized the chain that held him to
the wall in both hands, and wrung it with such convulsive energy that I
almost expected to see the bones of his fingers start through the skin.
His head dropped on his breast, his wasted figure quivered. It was only
for an instant. When he looked up again, his poor vacant brown eyes
turned on my aunt, dim with tears. She instantly shook off the
superintendent's hold on her arm. Before it was possible to interfere,
she was bending over Jack Straw, with one of her pretty white hands laid
gently on his head.

"How your head burns, poor Jack!" she said simply. "Does my hand cool
it?"

Still holding desperately by the chain, he answered like a timid child.
"Yes, Mistress; your hand cools it. Thank you."

She took up a little straw hat on which he had been working when his door
was opened. "This is very nicely done, Jack," she went on. "Tell me how
you first came to make these pretty things with your straw."

He looked up at her with a sudden accession of confidence; her interest
in the hat had flattered him.

"Once," he said, "there was a time when my hands were the maddest things
about me. They used to turn against me and tear my hair and my flesh. An
angel in a dream told me how to keep them quiet. An angel said, "Let them
work at your straw." All day long I plaited my straw. I would have gone
on all night too, if they would only have given me a light. My nights are
bad, my nights are dreadful. The raw air eats into me, the black darkness
frightens me. Shall I tell you what is the greatest blessing in the
world? Daylight! Daylight!! Daylight!!!"

At each repetition of the word his voice rose. He was on the point of
breaking into a scream, when he took a tighter turn of his chain and
instantly silenced himself. "I am quiet, sir," he said, before the
superintendent could reprove him.

My aunt added a word in his favor. "Jack has promised not to frighten me;
and I am sure he will keep his word. Have you never had parents or
friends to be kind to you, my poor fellow?" she asked, turning to him
again.

He looked up at her. "Never," he said, "till you came here to see me." As
he spoke, there was a flash of intelligence in the bright gratitude of
his eyes. "Ask me something else," he pleaded; "and see how quietly I can
answer you."

"Is it true, Jack, that you were once poisoned by accident, and nearly
killed by it?"

"Yes!"

"Where was it?"

"Far away in another country. In the doctor's big room. In the time when
I was the doctor's man."

"Who was the doctor?"

He put his hand to his head, "Give me more time," he said. "It hurts me
when I try to remember too much. Let me finish my hat first. I want to
give you my hat when it's done. You don't know how clever I am with my
fingers and thumbs. Just look and see!"

He set to work on the hat; perfectly happy while my aunt was looking at
him. The lawyer was the unlucky person who produced a change for the
worse. Having hitherto remained passive, this worthy gentleman seemed to
think it was due to his own importance to take a prominent part in the
proceedings. "My professional experience will come in well here," he
said; "I mean to treat him as an unwilling witness; you will see we shall
get something out of him in that way. Jack!"

The unwilling witness went on impenetrably with his work. The lawyer
(keeping well out of reach of the range of the chain) raised his voice.
"Hullo, there!" he cried, "you're not deaf, are you?"

Jack looked up, with an impish expression of mischief in his eyes. A man
with a modest opinion of himself would have taken warning, and would have
said no more. The lawyer persisted.

"Now, my man! let us have a little talk. 'Jack Straw' can't be your
proper name. What is your name?"

"Anything you like," said Jack. "What's yours?"

"Oh, come! that won't do. You must have had a father and mother."

"Not that I know of."

"Where were you born?"

"In the gutter."

"How were you brought up?"

"Sometimes with a cuff on the head."

"And at other times?"

"At other times with a kick. Do be quiet, and let me finish my hat."

The discomfited lawyer tried a bribe as a last resource. He held up a
shilling. "Do you see this?"

"No, I don't. I see nothing but my hat."

This reply brought the examination to an end. The lawyer looked at the
superintendent, and said, "A hopeless case, sir." The superintendent
looked at the lawyer, and answered, "Perfectly hopeless."

Jack finished his hat, and gave it to my aunt. "Do you like it, now it's
done?" he asked.

"I like it very much," she answered: "and one of these days I shall trim
it with ribbons, and wear it for your sake."

She appealed to the superintendent, holding out the hat to him.

"Look," she said. "There is not a false turn anywhere in all this
intricate plaiting. Poor Jack is sane enough to fix his attention to this
subtle work. Do you give him up as incurable, when he can do that?"

The superintendent waved away the question with his hand. "Purely
mechanical," he replied. "It means nothing."

Jack touched my aunt. "I want to whisper," he said. She bent down to him,
and listened.

I saw her smile, and asked, after we had left the asylum, what he had
said. Jack had stated his opinion of the principal officer of Bethlehem
Hospital in these words: "Don't you listen to him, Mistress; he's a poor
half-witted creature. And short, too--not above six inches taller than I
am!"

But my aunt had not done with Jack's enemy yet.

"I am sorry to trouble you, sir," she resumed--"I have something more to
say before I go, and I wish to say it privately. Can you spare me a few
minutes?"

The amiable superintendent declared that he was entirely at her service.
She turned to Jack to say good-bye. The sudden discovery that she was
about to leave him was more than he could sustain; he lost his
self-control.

"Stay with me!" cried the poor wretch, seizing her by both hands. "Oh, be
merciful, and stay with me!"

She preserved her presence of mind--she would permit no interference to
protect her. Without starting back, without even attempting to release
herself, she spoke to him quietly.

"Let us shake hands for to-day," she said; "you have kept your promise,
Jack--you have been quiet and good. I must leave you for a while. Let me
go."

He obstinately shook his head, and still held her.

"Look at me," she persisted, without showing any fear of him. "I want to
tell you something. You are no longer a friendless creature, Jack. You
have a friend in me. Look up."

Her clear firm tones had their effect on him; he looked up. Their eyes
met.

"Now, let me go, as I told you."

He dropped her hand, and threw himself back in his corner and burst out
crying.

"I shall never see her again," he moaned to himself. "Never, never, never
again!"

"You shall see me to-morrow," she said.

He looked at her through his tears, and looked away again with an abrupt
change to distrust. "She doesn't mean it," he muttered, still speaking to
himself; "she only says it to pacify me."

"You shall see me to-morrow," my aunt reiterated; "I promise it."

He was cowed, but not convinced; he crawled to the full length of his
chain, and lay down at her feet like a dog. She considered for a
moment--and found her way to his confidence at last.

"Shall I leave you something to keep for me until I see you again?"

The idea struck him like a revelation: he lifted his head, and eyed her
with breathless interest. She gave him a little ornamental handbag, in
which she was accustomed to carry her handkerchief, and purse, and
smelling-bottle.

"I trust it entirely to you, Jack: you shall give it back to me when we
meet to-morrow."

Those simple words more than reconciled him to her departure--they subtly
flattered his self-esteem.

"You will find your bag torn to pieces, to-morrow," the superintendent
whispered, as the door was opened for us to go out.

"Pardon me, sir," my aunt replied; "I believe I shall find it quite
safe."

The last we saw of poor Jack, before the door closed on him, he was
hugging the bag in both arms, and kissing it.



CHAPTER VI

On our return to home, I found Fritz Keller smoking his pipe in the
walled garden at the back of the house.

In those days, it may not be amiss to remark that merchants of the
old-fashioned sort still lived over their counting-houses in the city.
The late Mr. Wagner's place of business included two spacious houses
standing together, with internal means of communication. One of these
buildings was devoted to the offices and warehouses. The other (having
the garden at the back) was the private residence.

Fritz advanced to meet me, and stopped, with a sudden change in his
manner. "Something has happened," he said--"I see it in your face! Has
the madman anything to do with it?"

"Yes. Shall I tell you what has happened, Fritz?"

"Not for the world. My ears are closed to all dreadful and distressing
narratives. I will imagine the madman--let us talk of something else."

"You will probably see him, Fritz, in a few weeks' time."

"You don't mean to tell me he is coming into this house?"

"I am afraid it's likely, to say the least of it."

Fritz looked at me like a man thunderstruck. "There are some
disclosures," he said, in his quaint way, "which are too overwhelming to
be received on one's legs. Let us sit down."

He led the way to a summer-house at the end of the garden. On the wooden
table, I observed a bottle of the English beer which my friend prized so
highly, with glasses on either side of it.

"I had a presentiment that we should want a consoling something of this
sort," said Fritz. "Fill your glass, David, and let out the worst of it
at once, before we get to the end of the bottle."

I let out the best of it first--that is to say, I told him what I have
related in the preceding pages. Fritz was deeply interested: full of
compassion for Jack Straw, but not in the least converted to my aunt's
confidence in him.

"Jack is supremely pitiable," he remarked; "but Jack is also a smoldering
volcano--and smoldering volcanos burst into eruption when the laws of
nature compel them. My only hope is in Mr. Superintendent. Surely he will
not let this madman loose on us, with nobody but your aunt to hold the
chain? What did she really say, when you left Jack, and had your private
talk in the reception-room? One minute, my friend, before you begin,"
said Fritz, groping under the bench upon which we were seated. "I had a
second presentiment that we might want a second bottle--and here it is!
Fill your glass; and let us establish ourselves in our respective
positions--you to administer, and I to sustain, a severe shock to the
moral sense. I think, David, this second bottle is even more deliciously
brisk than the first. Well, and what did your aunt say?"

My aunt had said much more than I could possibly tell him.

In substance it had come to this:--After seeing the whip, and seeing the
chains, and seeing the man--she had actually determined to commit herself
to the perilous experiment which her husband would have tried, if he had
lived! As to the means of procuring Jack Straw's liberation from the
Hospital, the powerful influence which had insisted on his being received
by the Institution, in defiance of rules, could also insist on his
release, and could be approached by the intercession of the same official
person, whose interest in the matter had been aroused by Mr. Wagner in
the last days of his life. Having set forth her plans for the future in
these terms, my aunt appealed to the lawyer to state the expression of
her wishes and intentions, in formal writing, as a preliminary act of
submission towards the governors of the asylum.

"And what did the lawyer say to it?" Fritz inquired, after I had reported
my aunt's proceedings thus far.

"The lawyer declined, Fritz, to comply with her request. He said, 'It
would be inexcusable, even in a man, to run such a risk--I don't believe
there is another woman in England who would think of such a thing.' Those
were his words."

"Did they have any effect on her?"

"Not the least in the world. She apologized for having wasted his
valuable time, and wished him good morning. 'If nobody will help me,' she
said, quietly, 'I must help myself.' Then she turned to me. 'You have
seen how carefully and delicately poor Jack can work,' she said; 'you
have seen him tempted to break out, and yet capable of restraining
himself in my presence. And, more than that, on the one occasion when he
did lose his self-control, you saw how he recovered himself when he was
calmly and kindly reasoned with. Are you content, David, to leave such a
man for the rest of his life to the chains and the whip?' What could I
say? She was too considerate to press me; she only asked me to think of
it. I have been trying to think of it ever since--and the more I try, the
more I dread the consequences if that madman is brought into the house."

Fritz shuddered at the prospect.

"On the day when Jack comes into the house, I shall go out of it," he
said. The social consequences of my aunt's contemplated experiment
suddenly struck him while he spoke. "What will Mrs. Wagner's friends
think?" he asked piteously. "They will refuse to visit her--they will say
she's mad herself."

"Don't let that distress you, gentlemen--I shan't mind what my friends
say of me."

We both started in confusion to our feet. My aunt herself was standing at
the open door of the summer-house with a letter in her hand.

"News from Germany, just come for you, Fritz."

With those words, she handed him the letter, and left us.

We looked at each other thoroughly ashamed of ourselves, if the truth
must be told. Fritz cast an uneasy glance at the letter, and recognized
the handwriting on the address. "From my father!" he said. As he opened
the envelope a second letter enclosed fell out on the floor. He changed
color as he picked it up, and looked at it. The seal was unbroken--the
postmark was Wurzburg.



CHAPTER VII

Fritz kept the letter from Wurzburg unopened in his hand.

"It's not from Minna," he said; "the handwriting is strange to me.
Perhaps my father knows something about it." He turned to his father's
letter; read it; and handed it to me without a word of remark.

Mr. Keller wrote briefly as follows:--

"The enclosed letter has reached me by post, as you perceive, with
written instructions to forward it to my son. The laws of honor guide me
just as absolutely in my relations with my son as in my relations with
any other gentleman. I forward the letter to you exactly as I have
received it. But I cannot avoid noticing the postmark of the city in
which the Widow Fontaine and her daughter are still living. If either
Minna or her mother be the person who writes to you, I must say plainly
that I forbid your entering into any correspondence with them. The two
families shall never be connected by marriage while I live. Understand,
my dear son, that this is said in your own best interests, and said,
therefore, from the heart of your father who loves you."

While I was reading these lines Fritz had opened the letter from
Wurzburg. "It's long enough, at any rate," he said, turning over the
closely-written pages to find the signature at the end.

"Well?" I asked.

"Well," Fritz repeated, "it's an anonymous letter. The signature is 'Your
Unknown Friend.'"

"Perhaps it relates to Miss Minna, or to her mother," I suggested. Fritz
turned back to the first page and looked up at me, red with anger. "More
abominable slanders! More lies about Minna's mother!" he burst out. "Come
here, David. Look at it with me. What do you say? Is it the writing of a
woman or a man?"

The writing was so carefully disguised that it was impossible to answer
his question. The letter (like the rest of the correspondence connected
with this narrative) has been copied in duplicate and placed at my
disposal. I reproduce it here for reasons which will presently explain
themselves--altering nothing, not even the vulgar familiarity of the
address.



"My good fellow, you once did me a kindness a long time since. Never mind
what it was or who I am. I mean to do you a kindness in return. Let that
be enough.

"You are in love with 'Jezebel's Daughter.' Now, don't be angry! I know
you believe Jezebel to be a deeply-injured woman; I know you have been
foolish enough to fight duels at Wurzburg in defense of her character.

"It is enough for you that she is a fond mother, and that her innocent
daughter loves her dearly. I don't deny that she is a fond mother; but is
the maternal instinct enough of itself to answer for a woman? Why, Fritz,
a cat is a fond mother; but a cat scratches and swears for all that! And
poor simple little Minna, who can see no harm in anybody, who can't
discover wickedness when it stares her in the face--is _she_ a
trustworthy witness to the widow's character? Bah!

"Don't tear up my letter in a rage; I am not going to argue the question
with you any further. Certain criminal circumstances have come to my
knowledge, which point straight to this woman. I shall plainly relate
those circumstances, out of my true regard for you, in the fervent hope
that I may open your eyes to the truth.

"Let us go back to the death of Doctor-Professor Fontaine, at his
apartments in the University of Wurzburg, on the 3rd of September, in the
present year 1828.

"The poor man died of typhoid fever, as you know--and died in debt,
through no extravagance on his own part, as you also know. He had
outlived all his own relatives, and had no pecuniary hopes or
expectations from anyone. Under these circumstances, he could only leave
the written expression of his last wishes, in place of a will.

"This document committed his widow and child to the care of his widow's
relations, in terms of respectful entreaty. Speaking next of himself, he
directed that he should be buried with the strictest economy, so that he
might cost the University as little as possible. Thirdly, and lastly, he
appointed one of his brother professors to act as his sole executor, in
disposing of those contents of his laboratory which were his own property
at the time of his death.

"The written instructions to his executor are of such serious importance
that I feel it my duty to copy them for you, word for word.

"Thus they begin:--

"'I hereby appoint my dear old friend and colleague, Professor
Stein--now absent for a while at Munich, on University business--to act
as my sole representative in the disposal of the contents of my
laboratory, after my death. The various objects used in my chemical
investigations, which are my own private property, will be all found
arranged on the long deal table that stands between the two windows. They
are to be offered for sale to my successor, in the first instance. If he
declines to purchase them, they can then be sent to Munich, to be sold
separately by the manufacturer, as occasion may offer. The furniture of
the laboratory, both movable and stationary, belongs entirely to the
University, excepting the contents of an iron safe built into the south
wall of the room. As to these, which are my own sole property, I
seriously enjoin my executor and representative to follow my instructions
to the letter:--

"'(1) Professor Stein will take care to be accompanied by a competent
witness, when he opens the safe in the wall.

"'(2) The witness will take down in writing, from the dictation of
Professor Stein, an exact list of the contents of the safe. These
are:--Bottles containing drugs, tin cases containing powders, and a small
medicine-chest, having six compartments, each occupied by a labeled
bottle, holding a liquid preparation.

"'(3) The written list being complete, I desire Professor Stein to empty
every one of the bottles and cases, including the bottles in the
medicine-chest, into the laboratory sink, with his own hands. He is also
to be especially careful to destroy the labels on the bottles in the
medicine-chest. These things done, he will sign the list, stating that
the work of destruction is accomplished; and the witness present will add
his signature. The document, thus attested, is to be placed in the care
of the Secretary to the University.

"'My object in leaving these instructions is simply to prevent the
dangerous results which might follow any meddling with my chemical
preparations, after my death.

"'In almost every instance, these preparations are of a poisonous
nature. Having made this statement, let me add, in justice to myself,
that the sole motive for my investigations has been the good of my
fellow-creatures.

"'I have been anxious, in the first place, to enlarge the list of
curative medicines having poison for one of their ingredients. I have
attempted, in the second place, to discover antidotes to the deadly
action of those poisons, which (in cases of crime or accident) might be
the means of saving life.

"'If I had been spared for a few years longer, I should so far have
completed my labors as to have ventured on leaving them to be introduced
to the medical profession by my successor. As it is--excepting one
instance, in which I ran the risk, and was happily enabled to preserve
the life of a poisoned man--I have not had time so completely to verify
my theories, by practical experiment, as to justify me in revealing my
discoveries to the scientific world for the benefit of mankind.

"'Under these circumstances, I am resigned to the sacrifice of my
ambition--I only desire to do no harm. If any of my preparations, and
more particularly those in the medicine-chest, fell into ignorant or
wicked hands, I tremble when I think of the consequences which might
follow. My one regret is, that I have not strength enough to rise from my
bed, and do the good work of destruction myself. My friend and executor
will take my place.

"'The key of the laboratory door, and the key of the safe, will be
secured this day in the presence of my medical attendant, in a small
wooden box. The box will be sealed (before the same witness) with my own
seal. I shall keep it under my pillow, to give it myself to Professor
Stein, if I live until he returns from Munich.

"'If I die while my executor is still absent, my beloved wife is the one
person in the world whom I can implicitly trust to take charge of the
sealed box. She will give it to Professor Stein, immediately on his
return to Wurzburg; together with these instructions, which will be
placed in the box along with the keys.'"



"There are the instructions, friend Fritz! They are no secret now. The
Professor has felt it his duty to make them public in a court of law, in
consequence of the events which followed Doctor Fontaine's death. You are
interested in those events, and you shall be made acquainted with them
before I close my letter.

"Professor Stein returned from Munich too late to receive the box from
the hands of his friend and colleague. It was presented to him by the
Widow Fontaine, in accordance with her late husband's wishes.

"The Professor broke the seal. Having read his Instructions, he followed
them to the letter, the same day.

"Accompanied by the Secretary to the University, as a witness, he opened
the laboratory door. Leaving the sale of the objects on the table to be
provided for at a later date, he proceeded at once to take the list of
the bottles and cases, whose contents he was bound to destroy. On opening
the safe, these objects were found as the Instructions led him to
anticipate: the dust lying thick on them vouched for their having been
left undisturbed. The list being completed, the contents of the bottles
and cases were thereupon thrown away by the Professor's own hand.

"On looking next, however, for the medicine-chest, no such thing was to
be discovered in the safe. The laboratory was searched from end to end,
on the chance that some mistake had been made. Still no medicine-chest
was to be found.

"Upon this the Widow Fontaine was questioned. Did she know what had
become of the medicine-chest? She was not even aware that such a thing
existed. Had she been careful to keep the sealed box so safely that no
other person could get at it? Certainly! She had kept it locked in one of
her drawers, and the key in her pocket.

"The lock of the drawer, and the locks of the laboratory door and the
safe, were examined. They showed no sign of having been tampered with.
Persons employed in the University, who were certain to know, were asked
if duplicate keys existed, and all united in answering in the negative.
The medical attendant was examined, and declared that it was physically
impossible for Doctor Fontaine to have left his bed, and visited the
laboratory, between the time of writing his Instructions and the time of
his death.

"While these investigations were proceeding, Doctor Fontaine's senior
assistant obtained leave to examine through a microscope the sealing-wax
left on the box which had contained the keys.

"The result of this examination, and of the chemical analyses which
followed, proved that two different kinds of sealing-wax (both of the
same red color, superficially viewed) had been used on the seal of the
box--an undermost layer of one kind of wax, and an uppermost layer of
another, mingled with the undermost in certain places only. The plain
inference followed that the doctor's sealing-wax had been softened by
heat so as to allow of the opening of the box, and that new sealing-wax
had been afterwards added, and impressed by the Doctor's seal so that the
executor might suspect nothing. Here, again, the evidence of the medical
attendant (present at the time) proved that Doctor Fontaine had only used
one stick of sealing-wax to secure the box. The seal itself was found in
the possession of the widow; placed carelessly in the china tray in which
she kept her rings after taking them off for the night.

"The affair is still under judicial investigation. I will not trouble you
by reporting the further proceedings in detail.

"Of course, Widow Fontaine awaits the result of the investigation with
the composure of conscious innocence. Of course, she has not only
submitted to an examination of her lodgings, but has insisted on it. Of
course, no red sealing-wax and no medicine-chest have been found. Of
course, some thief unknown, for some purpose quite inconceivable, got at
the box and the seal, between the Doctor's death and the return of the
Professor from Munich, and read the Instructions and stole the terrible
medicine-chest. Such is the theory adopted by the defense. If you can
believe it--then I have written in vain. If, on the other hand, you are
the sensible young man I take you to be, follow my advice. Pity poor
little Minna as much as you please, but look out for another young lady
with an unimpeachable mother; and think yourself lucky to have two such
advisers as your excellent father, and Your Unknown Friend."



CHAPTER VIII

"I will lay any wager you like," said Fritz, when we had come to the end
of the letter, "that the wretch who has written this is a woman."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because all the false reports about poor Madame Fontaine, when I was at
Wurzburg, were traced to women. They envy and hate Minna's mother. She is
superior to them in everything; handsome, distinguished, dresses to
perfection, possesses all the accomplishments--a star, I tell you, a
brilliant star among a set of dowdy domestic drudges. Isn't it infamous,
without an atom of evidence against her, to take it for granted that she
is guilty? False to her dead husband's confidence in her, a breaker of
seals, a stealer of poisons--what an accusation against a defenseless
woman! Oh, my poor dear Minna! how she must feel it; she doesn't possess
her mother's strength of mind. I shall fly to Wurzburg to comfort her. My
father may say what he pleases; I can't leave these two persecuted women
without a friend. Suppose the legal decision goes against the widow? How
do I know that judgment has not been pronounced already? The suspense is
intolerable. Do you mean to tell me I am bound to obey my father, when
his conduct is neither just nor reasonable?"

"Gently, Fritz--gently!"

"I tell you, David, I can prove what I say. Just listen to this. My
father has never even seen Minna's mother; he blindly believes the
scandals afloat about her--he denies that any woman can be generally
disliked and distrusted among her neighbors without some good reason for
it. I assure you, on my honor, he has no better excuse for forbidding me
to marry Minna than that. Is it just, is it reasonable, to condemn a
woman without first hearing what she has to say in her own defense? Ah,
now indeed I feel the loss of my own dear mother! If she had been alive
she would have exerted her influence, and have made my father ashamed of
his own narrow prejudices. My position is maddening; my head whirls when
I think of it. If I go to Wurzburg, my father will never speak to me
again. If I stay here, I shall cut my throat."

There was still a little beer left in the bottom of the second bottle.
Fritz poured it out, with a gloomy resolution to absorb it to the last
drop.

I took advantage of this momentary pause of silence to recommend the
virtue of patience to the consideration of my friend. News from Wurzburg,
I reminded him, might be obtained in our immediate neighborhood by
consulting a file of German journals, kept at a foreign coffee-house. By
way of strengthening the good influence of this suggestion, I informed
Fritz that I expected to be shortly sent to Frankfort, as the bearer of a
business communication addressed to Mr. Keller by my aunt; and I offered
privately to make inquiries, and (if possible) even to take messages to
Wurzburg--if he would only engage to wait patiently for the brighter
prospects that might show themselves in the time to come.

I had barely succeeded in tranquilizing Fritz, when my attention was
claimed by the more serious and pressing subject of the liberation of
Jack Straw. My aunt sent to say that she wished to see me.

I found her at her writing-table, with the head-clerk established at the
desk opposite.

Mr. Hartrey was quite as strongly opposed as the lawyer to any meddling
with the treatment of mad people on the part of my aunt. But he placed
his duty to his employer before all other considerations; and he
rendered, under respectful protest, such services as were required of
him. He was now engaged in drawing out the necessary memorials and
statements, under the instructions of my aunt. Her object in sending for
me was to inquire if I objected to making fair copies of the rough drafts
thus produced. In the present stage of the affair, she was unwilling to
take the clerks at the office into her confidence. As a matter of course,
I followed Mr. Hartrey's example, and duly subordinated my own opinions
to my aunt's convenience.

On the next day, she paid her promised visit to poor Jack.

The bag which she had committed to his care was returned to her without
the slightest injury. Naturally enough, she welcomed this circumstance as
offering a new encouragement to the design that she had in view. Mad Jack
could not only understand a responsibility, but could prove himself
worthy of it. The superintendent smiled, and said, in his finely ironical
way, "I never denied, madam, that Jack was cunning."

From that date, my aunt's venturesome enterprise advanced towards
completion with a rapidity that astonished us.

Applying, in the first instance, to the friend of her late husband,
holding a position in the Royal Household, she was met once more by the
inevitable objections to her design. She vainly pleaded that her purpose
was to try the experiment modestly in the one pitiable case of Jack
Straw, and that she would willingly leave any further development of her
husband's humane project to persons better qualified to encounter dangers
and difficulties than herself. The only concession that she could obtain
was an appointment for a second interview, in the presence of a gentleman
whose opinion it would be important to consult. He was one of the
physicians attached to the Court, and he was known to be a man of liberal
views in his profession. Mrs. Wagner would do well, in her own interests,
to be guided by his disinterested advice.

Keeping this second appointment, my aunt provided herself with a special
means of persuasion in the shape of her husband's diary, containing his
unfinished notes on the treatment of insanity by moral influence.

As she had anticipated, the physician invited to advise her was readier
to read the notes than to listen to her own imperfect explanation of the
object in view. He was strongly impressed by the novelty and good sense
of the ideas that her husband advocated, and was candid enough openly to
acknowledge it. But he, too, protested against any attempt on the part of
a woman to carry out any part of the proposed reform, even on the
smallest scale. Exasperated by these new remonstrances, my aunt's
patience gave way. Refusing to submit herself to the physician's advice,
she argued the question boldly from her own point of view. The discussion
was at its height, when the door of the room was suddenly opened from
without. A lady in walking-costume appeared, with two ladies in
attendance on her. The two gentlemen started to their feet, and whispered
to my aunt, "The Princess!"

This was the exalted personage whom the superintendent at Bethlehem had
been too discreet to describe more particularly as a daughter of George
the Third. Passing the door on her way to the Palace-gardens, the
Princess had heard the contending voices, and the name of Jack distinctly
pronounced in a woman's tones. Inheriting unusually vigorous impulses of
curiosity from her august father, her Highness opened the door and joined
the party without ceremony.

"What are you quarreling about?" inquired the Princess. "And who is this
lady?"

Mrs. Wagner was presented, to answer for herself. She made the best of
the golden opportunity that had fallen into her hands. The Princess was
first astonished, then interested, then converted to my aunt's view of
the case. In the monotonous routine of Court life, here was a romantic
adventure in which even the King's daughter could take some share. Her
Highness quoted Boadicea, Queen Elizabeth, and Joan of Arc, as women who
had matched the men on their own ground--and complimented Mrs. Wagner as
a heroine of the same type.

"You are a fine creature," said the Princess, "and you may trust to me to
help you with all my heart. Come to my apartments tomorrow at this
time--and tell poor Jack that I have not forgotten him."

Assailed by Royal influence, all the technical obstacles that lawyers,
doctors, and governors could raise to the liberation of Jack Straw were
set aside by an ingenious appeal to the letter of the law, originating in
a suggestion made by the Princess herself.

"It lies in a nutshell, my dear," said her Highness to my aunt. "They
tell me I broke the rules when I insisted on having Jack admitted to the
Hospital. Now, your late husband was one of the governors; and you are
his sole executor. Very good. As your husband's representative, complain
of the violation of the rules, and insist on the discharge of Jack. He
occupies a place which ought to be filled by an educated patient in a
higher rank of life. Oh, never mind me! I shall express my regret for
disregarding the regulations--and, to prove my sincerity, I shall consent
to the poor creature's dismissal, and assume the whole responsibility of
providing for him myself. There is the way out of our difficulty. Take
it--and you shall have Jack whenever you want him."

In three weeks from that time, the "dangerous lunatic" was free (as our
friend the lawyer put it) to "murder Mrs. Wagner, and to burn the house
down."

How my aunt's perilous experiment was conducted--in what particulars it
succeeded and in what particulars it failed--I am unable to state as an
eyewitness, owing to my absence at the time. This curious portion of the
narrative will be found related by Jack himself, on a page still to come.
In the meanwhile, the course of events compels me to revert to the
circumstances which led to my departure from London.

While Mrs. Wagner was still in attendance at the palace, a letter reached
her from Mr. Keller, stating the necessity of increasing the number of
clerks at the Frankfort branch of our business. Closely occupied as she
then was, she found time to provide me with those instructions to her
German partners, preparing them for the coming employment of women in
their office, to which she had first alluded when the lawyer and I had
our interview with her after the reading of the will.

"The cause of the women," she said to me, "must not suffer because I
happen to be just now devoted to the cause of poor Jack. Go at once to
Frankfort, David. I have written enough to prepare my partners there for
a change in the administration of the office, and to defer for the
present the proposed enlargement of our staff of clerks. The rest you can
yourself explain from your own knowledge of the plans that I have in
contemplation. Start on your journey as soon as possible--and understand
that you are to say No positively, if Fritz proposes to accompany you. He
is not to leave London without the express permission of his father."

Fritz did propose to accompany me, the moment he heard of my journey. I
must own that I thought the circumstances excused him.

On the previous evening, we had consulted the German newspapers at the
coffee-house, and had found news from Wurzburg which quite overwhelmed my
excitable friend.

Being called upon to deliver their judgment, the authorities presiding at
the legal inquiry into the violation of the seals and the loss of the
medicine-chest failed to agree in opinion, and thus brought the
investigation to a most unsatisfactory end. The moral effect of this
division among the magistrates was unquestionably to cast a slur on the
reputation of Widow Fontaine. She was not pronounced to be guilty--but
she was also not declared to be innocent. Feeling, no doubt, that her
position among her neighbors had now become unendurable, she and her
daughter had left Wurzburg. The newspaper narrative added that their
departure had been privately accomplished. No information could be
obtained of the place of their retreat.

But for this last circumstance, I believe Fritz would have insisted on
traveling with me. Ignorant of what direction to begin the search for
Minna and her mother, he consented to leave me to look for traces of them
in Germany, while he remained behind to inquire at the different foreign
hotels, on the chance that they might have taken refuge in London.

The next morning I started for Frankfort.

My spirits were high as I left the shores of England. I had a young man's
hearty and natural enjoyment of change. Besides, it flattered my
self-esteem to feel that I was my aunt's business-representative; and I
was almost equally proud to be Fritz's confidential friend. Never could
any poor human creature have been a more innocent instrument of mischief
in the hands of Destiny than I was, on that fatal journey. The day was
dark, when the old weary way of traveling brought me at last to
Frankfort. The unseen prospect, at the moment when I stepped out of the
mail-post-carriage, was darker still.



CHAPTER IX

I had just given a porter the necessary directions for taking my
portmanteau to Mr. Keller's house, when I heard a woman's voice behind me
asking the way to the Poste Restante--or, in our roundabout English
phrase, the office of letters to be left till called for.

The voice was delightfully fresh and sweet, with an undertone of sadness,
which made it additionally interesting. I did what most other young men
in my place would have done--I looked round directly.

Yes! the promise of the voice was abundantly kept by the person. She was
quite a young girl, modest and ladylike; a little pale and careworn, poor
thing, as if her experience of life had its sad side already. Her face
was animated by soft sensitive eyes--the figure supple and slight, the
dress of the plainest material, but so neatly made and so perfectly worn
that I should have doubted her being a German girl, if I had not heard
the purely South-German accent in which she put her question. It was
answered, briefly and civilly, by the conductor of the post-carriage in
which I had traveled. But, at that hour, the old court-yard of the
post-office was thronged with people arriving and departing, meeting
their friends and posting their letters. The girl was evidently not used
to crowds. She was nervous and confused. After advancing a few steps in
the direction pointed out to her, she stopped in bewilderment, hustled by
busy people, and evidently in doubt already about which way she was to
turn next.

If I had followed the strict line of duty, I suppose I should have turned
my steps in the direction of Mr. Keller's house. I followed my instincts
instead, and offered my services to the young lady. Blame the laws of
Nature and the attraction between the sexes. Don't blame me.

"I heard you asking for the post-office," I said. "Will you allow me to
show you the way?"

She looked at me, and hesitated. I felt that I was paying the double
penalty of being a young man, and of being perhaps a little too eager as
well.

"Forgive me for venturing to speak to you," I pleaded. "It is not very
pleasant for a young lady to find herself alone in such a crowded place
as this. I only ask permission to make myself of some trifling use to
you."

She looked at me again, and altered her first opinion.

"You are very kind, sir; I will thankfully accept your assistance."

"May I offer you my arm?"

She declined this proposal--with perfect amiability, however. "Thank you,
sir, I will follow you, if you please."

I pushed my way through the crowd, with the charming stranger close at my
heels. Arrived at the post-office, I drew aside to let her make her own
inquiries. Would she mention her name? No; she handed in a passport, and
asked if there was a letter waiting for the person named in it. The
letter was found; but was not immediately delivered. As well as I could
understand, the postage had been insufficiently paid, and the customary
double-rate was due. The young lady searched in the pocket of her
dress--a cry of alarm escaped her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I have lost my
purse, and the letter is so important!"

It occurred to me immediately that she had had her pocket picked by some
thief in the crowd. The clerk thought so too. He looked at the clock.
"You must be quick about it if you return for the letter," he said, "the
office closes in ten minutes."

She clasped her hands in despair. "It's more than ten minutes' walk," she
said, "before I can get home."

I immediately offered to lend her the money. "It is such a very small
sum," I reminded her, "that it would be absurd to consider yourself under
any obligation to me."

Between her eagerness to get possession of the letter, and her doubt of
the propriety of accepting my offer, she looked sadly embarrassed, poor
soul.

"You are very good to me," she said confusedly; "but I am afraid it might
not be quite right in me to borrow money of a stranger, however little it
may be. And, even if I did venture, how am I----?" She looked at me
shyly, and shrank from finishing the sentence.

"How are you to pay it back?" I suggested.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, it's not worth the trouble of paying back. Give it to the first poor
person you meet with to-morrow." I said this, with the intention of
reconciling her to the loan of the money. It had exactly the contrary
effect on this singularly delicate and scrupulous girl. She drew back a
step directly.

"No, I couldn't do that," she said. "I could only accept your kindness,
if----" She stopped again. The clerk looked once more at the clock. "Make
up your mind, Miss, before it's too late."

In her terror of not getting the letter that day, she spoke out plainly
at last. "Will you kindly tell me, sir, to what address I can return the
money when I get home?"

I paid for the letter first, and then answered the question.

"If you will be so good as to send it to Mr. Keller's house----"

Before I could add the name of the street, her pale face suddenly
flushed. "Oh!" she exclaimed impulsively, "do you know Mr. Keller?"

A presentiment of the truth occurred to my mind for the first time.

"Yes," I said; "and his son Fritz too."

She trembled; the color that had risen in her face left it instantly; she
looked away from me with a pained, humiliated expression. Doubt was no
longer possible. The charming stranger was Fritz's sweetheart--and
"Jezebel's Daughter."

My respect for the young lady forbade me to attempt any concealment of
the discovery that I had made. I said at once, "I believe I have the
honor of speaking to Miss Minna Fontaine?"

She looked at me in wonder, not unmixed with distrust.

"How do you know who I am?" she asked.

"I can easily tell you, Miss Minna. I am David Glenney, nephew of Mrs.
Wagner, of London. Fritz is staying in her house, and he and I have
talked about you by the hour together."

The poor girl's face, so pale and sad the moment before, became radiant
with happiness. "Oh!" she cried innocently, "has Fritz not forgotten me?"

Even at this distance of time, my memory recalls her lovely dark eyes
riveted in breathless interest on my face, as I spoke of Fritz's love and
devotion, and told her that she was still the one dear image in his
thoughts by day, in his dreams by night. All her shyness vanished. She
impulsively gave me her hand. "How can I be grateful enough to the good
angel who has brought us together!" she exclaimed. "If we were not in the
street, I do believe, Mr. David, I should go down on my knees to thank
you! You have made me the happiest girl living." Her voice suddenly
failed her; she drew her veil down. "Don't mind me," she said; "I can't
help crying for joy."

Shall I confess what my emotions were? For the moment, I forgot my own
little love affair in England--and envied Fritz from the bottom of my
heart.

The chance-passengers in the street began to pause and look at us. I
offered Minna my arm, and asked permission to attend her on the way home.

"I should like it," she answered, with a friendly frankness that charmed
me. "But you are expected at Mr. Keller's--you must go there first."

"May I call and see you to-morrow?" I persisted, "and save you the
trouble of sending my money to Mr. Keller's?"

She lifted her veil and smiled at me brightly through her tears. "Yes,"
she said; "come to-morrow and be introduced to my mother. Oh! how glad my
dear mother will be to see you, when I tell her what has happened! I am a
selfish wretch; I have not borne my sorrow and suspense as I ought; I
have made her miserable about me, because I was miserable about Fritz.
It's all over now. Thank you again and again. There is our address on
that card. No, no, we must say good-bye till to-morrow. My mother is
waiting for her letter; and Mr. Keller is wondering what has become of
you." She pressed my hand warmly and left me.

On my way alone to Mr. Keller's house, I was not quite satisfied with
myself. The fear occurred to me that I might have spoken about Fritz a
little too freely, and might have excited hopes which could never be
realized. The contemplation of the doubtful future began to oppress my
mind. Minna might have reason to regret that she had ever met with me.

I was received by Mr. Keller with truly German cordiality. He and his
partner Mr. Engelman--one a widower, the other an old bachelor--lived
together in the ancient building, in Main Street, near the river, which
served for house and for offices alike.

The two old gentlemen offered the completest personal contrast
imaginable. Mr. Keller was lean, tall, and wiry--a man of considerable
attainments beyond the limits of his business, capable (when his hot
temper was not excited) of speaking sensibly and strongly on any subject
in which he was interested. Mr. Engelman, short and fat, devoted to the
office during the hours of business, had never read a book in his life,
and had no aspiration beyond the limits of his garden and his pipe. "In
my leisure moments," he used to say, "give me my flowers, my pipe, and my
peace of mind--and I ask no more." Widely as they differed in character,
the two partners had the truest regard for one another. Mr. Engelman
believed Mr. Keller to be the most accomplished and remarkable man in
Germany. Mr. Keller was as firmly persuaded, on his side, that Mr.
Engelman was an angel in sweetness of temper, and a model of modest and
unassuming good sense. Mr. Engelman listened to Mr. Keller's learned talk
with an ignorant admiration which knew no limit. Mr. Keller, detesting
tobacco in all its forms, and taking no sort of interest in horticulture,
submitted to the fumes of Mr. Engelman's pipe, and passed hours in Mr.
Engelman's garden without knowing the names of nine-tenths of the flowers
that grew in it. There are still such men to be found in Germany and in
England; but, oh! dear me, the older I get the fewer I find there are of
them.

The two old friends and partners were waiting for me to join them at
their early German supper. Specimens of Mr. Engelman's flowers adorned
the table in honor of my arrival. He presented me with a rose from the
nosegay when I entered the room.

"And how did you leave dear Mrs. Wagner?" he inquired.

"And how is my boy Fritz?" asked Mr. Keller.

I answered in terms which satisfied them both, and the supper proceeded
gaily. But when the table was cleared, and Mr. Engelman had lit his pipe,
and I had kept him company with a cigar, then Mr. Keller put the fatal
question. "And now tell me, David, do you come to us on business or do
you come to us on pleasure?"

I had no alternative but to produce my instructions, and to announce the
contemplated invasion of the office by a select army of female clerks.
The effect produced by the disclosure was highly characteristic of the
widely different temperaments of the two partners.

Mild Mr. Engelman laid down his pipe, and looked at Mr. Keller in
helpless silence.

Irritable Mr. Keller struck his fist on the table, and appealed to Mr.
Engelman with fury in his looks.

"What did I tell you," he asked, "when we first heard that Mr. Wagner's
widow was appointed head-partner in the business? How many opinions of
philosophers on the moral and physical incapacities of women did I quote?
Did I, or did I not, begin with the ancient Egyptians, and end with
Doctor Bernastrokius, our neighbor in the next street?"

Poor Mr. Engelman looked frightened.

"Don't be angry, my dear friend," he said softly.

"Angry?" repeated Mr. Keller, more furiously than ever. "My good
Engelman, you never were more absurdly mistaken in your life! I am
delighted. Exactly what I expected, exactly what I predicted, has come to
pass. Put down your pipe! I can bear a great deal--but tobacco smoke is
beyond me at such a crisis as this. And do for once overcome your
constitutional indolence. Consult your memory; recall my own words when
we were first informed that we had a woman for head-partner."

"She was a very pretty woman when I first saw her," Mr. Engelman
remarked.

"Pooh!" cried Mr. Keller.

"I didn't mean to offend you," said Mr. Engelman. "Allow me to present
you with one of my roses as a peace-offering."

_"Will_ you be quiet, and let me speak?"

"My dear Keller, I am always too glad to hear you speak! You put ideas
into my poor head, and my poor head lets them out, and then you put them
in again. What noble perseverance! If I live a while longer I do really
think you will make a clever man of me. Let me put the rose in your
buttonhole for you. And I say, I wish you would allow me to go on with my
pipe."

Mr. Keller made a gesture of resignation, and gave up his partner in
despair. "I appeal to _you,_ David," he said, and poured the full flow of
his learning and his indignation into my unlucky ears.

Mr. Engelman, enveloped in clouds of tobacco-smoke, enjoyed in silence
the composing influence of his pipe. I said, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir,"
at the right intervals in the flow of Mr. Keller's eloquence. At this
distance of time, I cannot pretend to report the long harangue of which I
was made the victim. In substance, Mr. Keller held that there were two
irremediable vices in the composition of women. Their dispositions
presented, morally speaking, a disastrous mixture of the imitativeness of
a monkey and the restlessness of a child. Having proved this by copious
references to the highest authorities, Mr. Keller logically claimed my
aunt as a woman, and, as such, not only incapable of "letting well
alone," but naturally disposed to imitate her husband on the most
superficial and defective sides of his character. "I predicted, David,
that the fatal disturbance of our steady old business was now only a
question of time--and there, in Mrs. Wagner's ridiculous instructions, is
the fulfillment of my prophecy!"

Before we went to bed that night, the partners arrived at two
resolutions. Mr. Keller resolved to address a written remonstrance to my
aunt. Mr. Engelman resolved to show me his garden the first thing in the
morning.



CHAPTER X

On the afternoon of the next day, while my two good friends were still
occupied by the duties of the office, I stole out to pay my promised
visit to Minna and Minna's mother.

It was impossible not to arrive at the conclusion that they were indeed
in straitened circumstances. Their lodgings were in the cheap suburban
quarter of Frankfort on the left bank of the river. Everything was
scrupulously neat, and the poor furniture was arranged with taste--but no
dexterity of management could disguise the squalid shabbiness of the
sitting-room into which I was shown. I could not help thinking how
distressed Fritz would feel, if he could have seen his charming Minna in
a place so unworthy of her as this.

The rickety door opened, and the "Jezebel" of the anonymous letter
(followed by her daughter) entered the room.

There are certain remarkable women in all countries who, whatever sphere
they may be seen in, fill that sphere as completely as a great actor
fills the stage. Widow Fontaine was one of these noteworthy persons. The
wretched little room seemed to disappear when she softly glided into it;
and even the pretty Minna herself receded into partial obscurity in her
mother's presence. And yet there was nothing in the least obtrusive in
the manner of Madame Fontaine, and nothing remarkable in her stature. Her
figure, reaching to no more than the middle height, was the well-rounded
figure of a woman approaching forty years of age. The influence she
exercised was, in part, attributable, as I suppose, to the supple grace
of all her movements; in part, to the commanding composure of her
expression and the indescribable witchery of her manner. Her dark eyes,
never fully opened in my remembrance, looked at me under heavy
overhanging upper eyelids. Her enemies saw something sensual in their
strange expression. To my mind it was rather something furtively
cruel--except when she looked at her daughter. Sensuality shows itself
most plainly in the excessive development of the lower part of the face.
Madame Fontaine's lips were thin, and her chin was too small. Her profuse
black hair was just beginning to be streaked with gray. Her complexion
wanted color. In spite of these drawbacks, she was still a striking, I
might almost say a startling, creature, when you first looked at her.
And, though she only wore the plainest widow's weeds, I don't scruple to
assert that she was the most perfectly dressed woman I ever saw.

Minna made a modest attempt to present me in due form. Her mother put her
aside playfully, and held out both her long white powerful hands to me as
cordially as if we had known each other for years.

"I wait to prove other people before I accept them for my friends," she
said. "Mr. David, you have been more than kind to my daughter--and _you_
are my friend at our first meeting."

I believe I repeat the words exactly. I wish I could give any adequate
idea of the exquisite charm of voice and manner which accompanied them.

And yet, I was not at my ease with her--I was not drawn to her
irresistibly, as I had felt drawn to her daughter. Those dark, steady,
heavy-lidded eyes of hers seemed to be looking straight into my heart,
and surprising all my secrets. To say that I actually distrusted and
disliked her would be far from the truth. Distrust and dislike would have
protected me, in some degree at least, from feeling her influence as I
certainly did feel it. How that influence was exerted--whether it was
through her eyes, or through her manner, or, to speak the jargon of these
latter days, through some "magnetic emanation" from her, which invisibly
overpowered me--is more than I can possibly say. I can only report that
she contrived by slow degrees to subject the action of my will more and
more completely to the action of hers, until I found myself answering her
most insidious questions as unreservedly as if she had been in very truth
my intimate and trusted friend.

"And is this your first visit to Frankfort, Mr. David?" she began.

"Oh, no, madam! I have been at Frankfort on two former occasions."

"Ah, indeed? And have you always stayed with Mr. Keller?"

"Always."

She looked unaccountably interested when she heard that reply, brief as
it was.

"Then, of course, you are intimate with him," she said. "Intimate enough,
perhaps, to ask a favor or to introduce a friend?"

I made a futile attempt to answer this cautiously.

"As intimate, madam, as a young clerk in the business can hope to be with
a partner," I said.

"A clerk in the business?" she repeated. "I thought you lived in London,
with your aunt."

Here Minna interposed for the first time.

"You forget, mamma, that there are three names in the business. The
inscription over the door in Main Street is Wagner, Keller, and Engelman.
Fritz once told me that the office here in Frankfort was only the small
office--and the grand business was Mr. Wagner's business in London. Am I
right, Mr. David?"

"Quite right, Miss Minna. But we have no such magnificent flower-garden
at the London house as Mr. Engelman's flower-garden here. May I offer you
a nosegay which he allowed me to gather?"

I had hoped to make the flowers a means of turning the conversation to
more interesting topics. But the widow resumed her questions, while Minna
was admiring the flowers.

"Then you are Mr. Wagner's clerk?" she persisted.

"I _was_ Mr. Wagner's clerk. Mr. Wagner is dead."

"Ha! And who takes care of the great business now?"

Without well knowing why, I felt a certain reluctance to speak of my aunt
and her affairs. But Widow Fontaine's eyes rested on me with a resolute
expectation in them which I felt myself compelled to gratify. When she
understood that Mr. Wagner's widow was now the chief authority in the
business, her curiosity to hear everything that I could tell her about my
aunt became all but insatiable. Minna's interest in the subject was, in
quite another way, as vivid as her mother's. My aunt's house was the
place to which cruel Mr. Keller had banished her lover. The inquiries of
the mother and daughter followed each other in such rapid succession that
I cannot pretend to remember them now. The last question alone remains
vividly impressed on my memory, in connection with the unexpected effect
which my answer produced. It was put by the widow in these words:

"Your aunt is interested, of course, in the affairs of her partners in
this place. Is it possible, Mr. David, that she may one day take the
journey to Frankfort?"

"It is quite likely, madam, that my aunt may be in Frankfort on business
before the end of the year."

As I replied in those terms the widow looked round slowly at her
daughter. Minna was evidently quite as much at a loss to understand the
look as I was. Madame Fontaine turned to me again, and made an apology.

"Pardon me, Mr. David, there is a little domestic duty that I had
forgotten." She crossed the room to a small table, on which
writing-materials were placed, wrote a few lines, and handed the paper,
without enclosing it, to Minna. "Give that, my love, to our good friend
downstairs--and, while you are in the kitchen, suppose you make the tea.
You will stay and drink tea with us, Mr. David? It is our only luxury,
and we always make it ourselves."

My first impulse was to find an excuse for declining the invitation.
There was something in the air of mystery with which Madame Fontaine
performed her domestic duties that was not at all to my taste. But Minna
pleaded with me to say Yes. "Do stay with us a little longer," she said,
in her innocently frank way, "we have so few pleasures in this place." I
might, perhaps, have even resisted Minna--but her mother literally laid
hands on me. She seated herself, with the air of an empress, on a shabby
little sofa in the corner of the room, and beckoning me to take my place
by her side, laid her cool firm hand persuasively on mine. Her touch
filled me with a strange sense of disturbance, half pleasurable, half
painful--I don't know how to describe it. Let me only record that I
yielded, and that Minna left us together.

"I want to tell you the whole truth," said Madame Fontaine, as soon as we
were alone; "and I can only do so in the absence of my daughter. You must
have seen for yourself that we are very poor?"

Her hand pressed mine gently. I answered as delicately as I could--I said
I was sorry, but not surprised, to hear it.

"When you kindly helped Minna to get that letter yesterday," she went on,
"you were the innocent means of inflicting a disappointment on me--one
disappointment more, after others that had gone before it. I came here to
place my case before some wealthy relatives of mine in this city. They
refused to assist me. I wrote next to other members of my family, living
in Brussels. The letter of yesterday contained their answer. Another
refusal! The landlady of this house is an afflicted creature, with every
claim on my sympathies; she, too, is struggling with poverty. If I failed
to pay her, it would be too cruel. Only yesterday I felt it my hard duty
to give her notice of our departure in a week more. I have just written
to recall that notice. The reason is, that I see a gleam of hope in the
future--and you, Mr. David, are the friend who has shown it to me."

I was more than surprised at this. "May I ask how?" I said.

She patted my hand with a playful assumption of petulance.

"A little more patience," she rejoined; "and you shall soon hear. If I
had only myself to think of, I should not feel the anxieties that now
trouble me. I could take a housekeeper's place to-morrow. Yes! I was
brought up among surroundings of luxury and refinement; I descended in
rank when I married--but for all that, I could fill a domestic employment
without repining my lot, without losing my self-respect. Adversity is a
hard teacher of sound lessons, David. May I call you David? And if you
heard of a housekeeper's place vacant, would you tell me of it?"

I could hardly understand whether she was in jest or in earnest. She went
on without waiting for me to reply.

"But I have my daughter to think of," she resumed, "and to add to my
anxieties my daughter has given her heart to Mr. Keller's son. While I
and my dear Minna had only our own interests to consider, we might have
earned our daily bread together; we might have faced the future with
courage. But what might once have been the calm course of our lives is
now troubled by a third person--a rival with me in my daughter's
love--and, worse still, a man who is forbidden to marry her. Is it
wonderful that I feel baffled, disheartened, helpless? Oh, I am not
exaggerating! I know my child's nature. She is too delicate, too
exquisitely sensitive, for the rough world she lives in. When she loves,
she loves with all her heart and soul. Day by day I have seen her pining
and fading under her separation from Fritz. You have revived her hopes
for the moment--but the prospect before her remains unaltered. If she
loses Fritz she will die of a broken heart. Oh, God! the one creature I
love--and how I am to help her and save her I don't know!"

For the first time, I heard the fervor of true feeling in her voice. She
turned aside from me, and hid her face with a wild gesture of despair
that was really terrible to see. I tried, honestly tried, to comfort her.

"Of one thing at least you may be sure." I said. "Fritz's whole heart is
given to your daughter. He will be true to her, and worthy of her,
through all trials."

"I don't doubt it," she answered sadly, "I have nothing to say against my
girl's choice. Fritz is good, and Fritz is true, as you say. But you
forget his father. Personally, mind, I despise Mr. Keller." She looked
round at me with unutterable contempt flashing through the tears that
filled her eyes. "A man who listens to every lie that scandal can utter
against the character of a helpless woman--who gives her no opportunity
of defending herself (I have written to him and received no answer)--who
declares that his son shall never marry my daughter (because we are poor,
of course); and who uses attacks on my reputation which he has never
verified, as the excuse for his brutal conduct--can anybody respect such
a man as that? And yet on this despicable creature my child's happiness
and my child's life depend! For her sake, no matter what my own feeling
may be, I must stoop to defend myself. I must make my opportunity of
combating his cowardly prejudice, and winning his good opinion in spite
of himself. How am I to get a hearing? how am I to approach him? I
understand that you are not in a position to help me. But you have done
wonders for me nevertheless, and God bless you for it!"

She lifted my hand to her lips. I foresaw what was coming; I tried to
speak. But she gave me no opportunity; her eloquent enthusiasm rushed
into a new flow of words.

"Yes, my best of friends, my wisest of advisers," she went on; "you have
suggested the irresistible interference of a person whose authority is
supreme. Your excellent aunt is the head of the business; Mr. Keller
_must_ listen to his charming chief. There is my gleam of hope. On that
chance, I will sell the last few valuables I possess, and wait till Mrs.
Wagner arrives at Frankfort. You start, David! What is there to alarm
you? Do you suppose me capable of presuming on your aunt's kindness--of
begging for favors which it may not be perfectly easy for her to grant?
Mrs. Wagner knows already from Fritz what our situation is. Let her only
see my Minna; I won't intrude on her myself. My daughter shall plead for
me; my daughter shall ask for all I want--an interview with Mr. Keller,
and permission to speak in my own defense. Tell me, honestly, am I
expecting too much, if I hope that your aunt will persuade Fritz's father
to see me?"

It sounded modestly enough in words. But I had my own doubts,
nevertheless.

I had left Mr. Keller working hard at his protest against the employment
of women in the office, to be sent to my aunt by that day's post. Knowing
them both as I did, I thought it at least probable that a written
controversy might be succeeded by a personal estrangement. If Mr. Keller
proved obstinate, Mrs. Wagner would soon show him that she had a will of
her own. Under those circumstances, no favors could be asked, no favors
could be granted--and poor Minna's prospects would be darker than ever.

This was one view of the case. I must own, however, that another
impression had been produced on me. Something in Madame Fontaine's manner
suggested that she might not be quite so modest in her demands on my
aunt, when they met at Frankfort, as she had led me to believe. I was
vexed with myself for having spoken too unreservedly, and was quite at a
loss to decide what I ought to say in answer to the appeal that had been
made to me. In this state of perplexity I was relieved by a welcome
interruption. Minna's voice reached us from the landing outside. "I have
both hands engaged," she said; "please let me in."

I ran to the door. The widow laid her finger on her lips. "Not a word,
mind, to Minna!" she whispered. "We understand each other--don't we?"

I said, "Yes, certainly." And so the subject was dropped for the rest of
the evening.

The charming girl came in carrying the tea-tray. She especially directed
my attention to a cake which she had made that day with her own hands. "I
can cook," she said, "and I can make my own dresses--and if Fritz is a
poor man when he marries me, I can save him the expense of a servant."
Our talk at the tea-table was, I dare say, too trifling to be recorded. I
only remember that I enjoyed it. Later in the evening, Minna sang to me.
I heard one of those simple German ballads again, not long since, and the
music brought the tears into my eyes.

The moon rose early that night. When I looked at my watch, I found that
it was time to go. Minna was at the window, admiring the moonlight. "On
such a beautiful night," she said, "it seems a shame to stay indoors. Do
let us walk a part of the way back with Mr. David, mamma! Only as far as
the bridge, to see the moon on the river."

Her mother consented, and we three left the house together.

Arrived at the bridge, we paused to look at the view. But the clouds were
rising already, and the moonlight only showed itself at intervals. Madame
Fontaine said she smelt rain in the air, and took her daughter's arm to
go home. I offered to return with them as far as their own door; but they
positively declined to delay me on my way back. It was arranged that I
should call on them again in a day or two.

Just as we were saying good-night, the fitful moonlight streamed out
brightly again through a rift in the clouds. At the same moment a stout
old gentleman, smoking a pipe, sauntered past us on the pavement, noticed
me as he went by, stopped directly, and revealed himself as Mr. Engelman.
"Good-night, Mr. David," said the widow. The moon shone full on her as
she gave me her hand; Minna standing behind her in the shadow. In a
moment more the two ladies had left us.

Mr. Engelman's eyes followed the smoothly gliding figure of the widow,
until it was lost to view at the end of the bridge. He laid his hand
eagerly on my arm. "David!" he said, "who is that glorious creature?"

"Which of the two ladies do you mean?" I asked, mischievously.

"The one with the widow's cap, of course!"

"Do you admire the widow, sir?"

"Admire her!" repeated Mr. Engelman. "Look here, David!" He showed me the
long porcelain bowl of his pipe. "My dear boy, she has done what no woman
ever did with me yet--she has put my pipe out!"



CHAPTER XI

There was something so absurd in the association of Madame Fontaine's
charms with the extinction of Mr. Engelman's pipe, that I burst out
laughing. My good old friend looked at me in grave surprise.

"What is there to laugh at in my forgetting to keep my pipe alight?" he
asked. "My whole mind, David, was absorbed in that magnificent woman the
instant I set eyes on her. The image of her is before me at this
moment--an image of an angel in moonlight. Am I speaking poetically for
the first time in my life? I shouldn't wonder. I really don't know what
is the matter with me. You are a young man, and perhaps you can tell.
Have I fallen in love, as the saying is?" He took me confidentially by
the arm, before I could answer this formidable question. "Don't tell
friend Keller!" he said, with a sudden outburst of alarm. "Keller is an
excellent man, but he has no mercy on sinners. I say, David! couldn't you
introduce me to her?"

Still haunted by the fear that I had spoken too unreservedly during my
interview with the widow, I was in the right humor to exhibit
extraordinary prudence in my intercourse with Mr. Engelman.

"I couldn't venture to introduce you," I said; "the lady is living here
in the strictest retirement."

"At any rate, you can tell me her name," pleaded Mr. Engelman. "I dare
say you have mentioned it to Keller?"

"I have done nothing of the sort. I have reasons for saying nothing about
the lady to Mr. Keller."

"Well, you can trust me to keep the secret, David. Come! I only want to
send her some flowers from my garden. She can't object to that. Tell me
where I am to send my nosegay, there's a dear fellow."

I dare say I did wrong--indeed, judging by later events, I _know_ I did
wrong. But I could not view the affair seriously enough to hold out
against Mr. Engelman in the matter of the nosegay. He started when I
mentioned the widow's name.

"Not the mother of the girl whom Fritz wants to marry?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, the same. Don't you admire Fritz's taste? Isn't Miss Minna a
charming girl?"

"I can't say, David. I was bewitched--I had no eyes for anybody but her
mother. Do you think Madame Fontaine noticed me?"

"Oh, yes. I saw her look at you."

"Turn this way, David. The effect of the moonlight on you seems to make
you look younger. Has it the same effect on me? How old should you guess
me to be to-night? Fifty or sixty?"

"Somewhere between the two, sir."

(He was close on seventy. But who could have been cruel enough to say so,
at that moment?)

My answer proved to be so encouraging to the old gentleman that he
ventured on the subject of Madame Fontaine's late husband. "Was she very
fond of him, David? What sort of man was he?"

I informed him that I had never even seen Dr. Fontaine; and then, by way
of changing the topic, inquired if I was too late for the regular
supper-hour at Main Street.

"My dear boy, the table was cleared half an hour ago. But I persuaded our
sour-tempered old housekeeper to keep something hot for you. You won't
find Keller very amiable to-night, David. He was upset, to begin with, by
writing that remonstrance to your aunt--and then your absence annoyed
him. 'This is treating our house like an hotel; I won't allow anybody to
take such liberties with us.' Yes! that was really what he said of you.
He was so cross, poor fellow, that I left him, and went out for a stroll
on the bridge. And met my fate," added poor Mr. Engelman, in the saddest
tones I had ever heard fall from his lips.

My reception at the house was a little chilly.

"I have written my mind plainly to your aunt," said Mr. Keller; "you will
probably be recalled to London by return of post. In the meantime, on the
next occasion when you spend the evening out, be so obliging as to leave
word to that effect with one of the servants." The crabbed old
housekeeper (known in the domestic circle as Mother Barbara) had her
fling at me next. She set down the dish which she had kept hot for me,
with a bang that tried the resisting capacity of the porcelain severely.
"I've done it this once," she said. "Next time you're late, you and the
dog can sup together."

The next day, I wrote to my aunt, and also to Fritz, knowing how anxious
he must be to hear from me.

To tell him the whole truth would probably have been to bring him to
Frankfort as fast as sailing-vessels and horses could carry him. All I
could venture to say was, that I had found the lost trace of Minna and
her mother, and that I had every reason to believe there was no cause to
feel any present anxiety about them. I added that I might be in a
position to forward a letter secretly, if it would comfort him to write
to his sweetheart.

In making this offer, I was, no doubt, encouraging my friend to disobey
the plain commands which his father had laid on him.

But, as the case stood, I had really no other alternative. With Fritz's
temperament, it would have been simply impossible to induce him to remain
in London, unless his patience was sustained in my absence by a practical
concession of some kind. In the interests of peace, then--and I must own
in the interests of the pretty and interesting Minna as well--I consented
to become a medium for correspondence, on the purely Jesuitical principle
that the end justified the means. I had promised to let Minna know of it
when I wrote to Fritz. My time being entirely at my own disposal, until
the vexed question of the employment of women was settled between Mr.
Keller and my aunt, I went to the widow's lodgings, after putting my
letters in the post.

Having made Minna happy in the anticipation of hearing from Fritz, I had
leisure to notice an old china punch-bowl on the table, filled to
overflowing with magnificent flowers. To anyone who knew Mr. Engelman as
well as I did, the punch-bowl suggested serious considerations. He, who
forbade the plucking of a single flower on ordinary occasions, must, with
his own hands, have seriously damaged the appearance of his beautiful
garden.

"What splendid flowers!" I said, feeling my way cautiously. "Mr. Engelman
himself might be envious of such a nosegay as that."

The widow's heavy eyelids drooped lower for a moment, in unconcealed
contempt for my simplicity.

"Do you really think you can mystify _me?"_ she asked ironically. "Mr.
Engelman has done more than send the flowers--he has written me a
too-flattering note. And I," she said, glancing carelessly at the
mantelpiece, on which a letter was placed, "have written the necessary
acknowledgment. It would be absurd to stand on ceremony with the harmless
old gentleman who met us on the bridge. How fat he is! and what a
wonderful pipe he carries--almost as fat as himself!"

Alas for Mr. Engelman! I could not resist saying a word in his favor--she
spoke of him with such cruelly sincere contempt.

"Though he only saw you for a moment," I said, "he is your ardent admirer
already."

"Is he indeed?" She was so utterly indifferent to Mr. Engelman's
admiration that she could hardly take the trouble to make that
commonplace reply. The next moment she dismissed the subject. "So you
have written to Fritz?" she went on. "Have you also written to your
aunt?"

"Yes, by the same post."

"Mainly on business, no doubt? Is it indiscreet to ask if you slipped in
a little word about the hopes that I associate with Mrs. Wagner's arrival
at Frankfort?"

This seemed to give me a good opportunity of moderating her "hopes," in
mercy to her daughter and to herself.

"I thought it undesirable to mention the subject--for the present, at
least," I answered. "There is a serious difference of opinion between
Mrs. Wagner and Mr. Keller, on a subject connected with the management of
the office here. I say serious, because they are both equally firm in
maintaining their convictions. Mr. Keller has written to my aunt by
yesterday's post; and I fear it may end in an angry correspondence
between them."

I saw that I had startled her. She suddenly drew her chair close to mine.

"Do you think the correspondence will delay your aunt's departure from
England?" she asked.

"On the contrary. My aunt is a very resolute person, and it may hasten
her departure. But I am afraid it will indispose her to ask any favors of
Mr. Keller, or to associate herself with his personal concerns. Any
friendly intercourse between them will indeed be impossible, if she
asserts her authority as head-partner, and forces him to submit to a
woman in a matter of business."

She sank back in her chair. "I understand." she said faintly.

While we had been talking, Minna had walked to the window, and had
remained there looking out. She suddenly turned round as her mother
spoke.

"Mamma! the landlady's little boy has just gone out. Shall I tap at the
window and call him back?"

The widow roused herself with an effort. "What for, my love?" she asked,
absently.

Minna pointed to the mantelpiece. "To take your letter to Mr. Engelman,
mamma." Madame Fontaine looked at the letter--paused for a moment--and
answered, "No, my dear; let the boy go. It doesn't matter for the
present."

She turned to me, with an abrupt recovery of her customary manner.

"I am fortunately, for myself, a sanguine person," she resumed. "I always
did hope for the best; and (feeling the kind motive of what you have said
to me) I shall hope for the best still. Minna, my darling, Mr. David and
I have been talking on dry subjects until we are tired. Give us a little
music." While her daughter obediently opened the piano, she looked at the
flowers. "You are fond of flowers, David?" she went on. "Do you
understand the subject? I ignorantly admire the lovely colors, and enjoy
the delicious scents--and I can do no more. It was really very kind of
your old friend Mr. Engelman. Does he take any part in this deplorable
difference of opinion between your aunt and Mr. Keller?"

What did that new allusion to Mr. Engelman mean? And why had she declined
to despatch her letter to him, when the opportunity offered of sending it
by the boy?

Troubled by the doubts which these considerations suggested, I committed
an act of imprudence--I replied so reservedly that I put her on her
guard. All I said was that I supposed Mr. Engelman agreed with Mr.
Keller, but that I was not in the confidence of the two partners. From
that moment she saw through me, and was silent on the subject of Mr.
Engelman. Even Minna's singing had lost its charm, in my present frame of
mind. It was a relief to me when I could make my excuses, and leave the
house.

On my way back to Main Street, when I could think freely, my doubts began
to develop into downright suspicion. Madame Fontaine could hardly hope,
after what I had told her, to obtain the all-important interview with Mr.
Keller, through my aunt's intercession. Had she seen her way to trying
what Mr. Engelman's influence with his partner could do for her? Would
she destroy her formal acknowledgment of the receipt of his flowers, as
soon as my back was turned, and send him a second letter, encouraging him
to visit her? And would she cast him off, without ceremony, when he had
served her purpose?

These were the thoughts that troubled me on my return to the house. When
we met at supper, some hours later, my worst anticipations were realized.
Poor innocent Mr. Engelman was dressed with extraordinary smartness, and
was in the highest good spirits. Mr. Keller asked him jestingly if he was
going to be married. In the intoxication of happiness that possessed him,
he was quite reckless; he actually retorted by a joke on the sore subject
of the employment of women! "Who knows what may happen," he cried gaily,
"when we have young ladies in the office for clerks?" Mr. Keller was so
angry that he kept silence through the whole of our meal. When Mr.
Engelman left the room I slipped out after him.

"You are going to Madame Fontaine's," I said.

He smirked and smiled. "Just a little evening visit, David. Aha! you
young men are not to have it all your own way." He laid his hand tenderly
on the left breast-pocket of his coat. "Such a delightful letter!" he
said. "It is here, over my heart. No, a woman's sentiments are sacred; I
mustn't show it to you."

I was on the point of telling him the whole truth, when the thought of
Minna checked me for the time. My interest in preserving Mr. Engelman's
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 to 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.
"She is old enough to be my mother, sir," I whispered; "and this time, at
any rare, she has told you the truth."

Hardly a word passed between us on our way through the streets and over
the bridge. Minna was sad and silent, thinking of Fritz; and whatever her
mother might have to say to me, was evidently to be said in private.
Arrived at the lodgings, Madame Fontaine requested me to wait for her in
the shabby little sitting-room, and graciously gave me permission to
smoke. "Say good night to David," she continued, turning to her daughter.
"Your poor little heart is heavy to-night, and mamma means to put you to
bed as if you were a child again. Ah! me, if those days could only come
back!"

After a short absence the widow returned to me, with a composed manner
and a quiet smile. The meeting with Mr. Keller seemed to have been
completely dismissed from her thoughts, in the brief interval since I had
seen her last.

"We often hear of parents improving their children," she said. "It is my
belief that the children quite as often improve the parents. I have had
some happy minutes with Minna--and (would you believe it?) I am already
disposed to forgive Mr. Keller's brutality, and to write to him in a tone
of moderation, which must surely have its effect. All Minna's doing--and
my sweet girl doesn't in the least suspect it herself! If you ever have
children of your own, David, you will understand me and feel for me. In
the meantime, I must not detain you by idle talk--I must say plainly what
I want of you." She opened her writing-desk and took up a pen. "If I
write to Mr. Keller under your own eye, do you object to take charge of
my letter?"

I hesitated how to answer. To say the least of it, her request
embarrassed me.

"I don't expect you to give it to Mr. Keller personally," she explained.
"It is of very serious importance to me" (she laid a marked emphasis on
those words) "to be quite sure that my letter has reached him, and that
he has really had the opportunity of reading it. If you will only place
it on his desk in the office, with your own hand, that is all I ask you
to do. For Minna's sake, mind; not for mine!"

For Minna's sake, I consented. She rose directly, and signed to me to
take her place at the desk.

"It will save time," she said, "if you write the rough draft of the
letter from my dictation. I am accustomed to dictate my letters, with
Minna for secretary. Of course, you shall see the fair copy before I seal
it."

She began to walk up and down the little room, with her hands crossed
behind her in the attitude made famous by the great Napoleon. After a
minute of consideration, she dictated the draft as follows:

"Sir,--I am well aware that scandalous reports at Wurzburg have
prejudiced you against me. Those reports, so far as I know, may be summed
up under three heads.

"(First.) That my husband died in debt through my extravagance.

"(Second.) That my respectable neighbors refuse to associate with me.

"(Third.) That I entrapped your son Fritz into asking for my daughter's
hand in marriage, because I knew his father to be a rich man.

"To the first calumny I reply, that the debts are due to expensive
chemical experiments in which my late husband engaged, and that I have
satisfied the creditors to the last farthing. Grant me an audience, and I
will refer you to the creditors themselves.

"To the second calumny I reply, that I received invitations, on my
arrival in Wurzburg after my marriage, from every lady of distinguished
social position in the town. After experience of the society thus offered
to me, I own to having courteously declined subsequent invitations, and
having devoted myself in retirement to my husband, to my infant child,
and to such studies in literature and art as I had time to pursue. Gossip
and scandal, with an eternal accompaniment of knitting, are not to my
taste; and, while I strictly attend to domestic duties, I do not consider
them as constituting, in connection with tea-drinking, the one great
interest of a woman's life. I plead guilty to having been foolish enough
to openly acknowledge these sentiments, and to having made bitter enemies
everywhere as the necessary consequence. If this plain defense of myself
fails to satisfy you, grant me an audience, and I will answer your
questions, whatever they may be.

"To the third calumny, I reply, that if you had been a Prince instead of
a merchant, I would still have done everything in my power to keep your
son away from my daughter--for this simple reason, that the idea of
parting with her to any man fills me with grief and dismay. I only
yielded to the marriage engagement, when the conviction was forced upon
me that my poor child's happiness depended on her union with your son. It
is this consideration alone which induces me to write to you, and to
humiliate myself by pleading for a hearing. As for the question of money,
if through some unexpected misfortune you became a bankrupt to-morrow, I
would entreat you to consent to the marriage exactly as I entreat you
now. Poverty has no terrors for me while I have health to work. But I
cannot face the idea of my child's life being blighted, because you
choose to believe the slanders that are spoken of her mother. For the
third time I ask you to grant me an audience, and to hear me in my own
defense."

There she paused, and looked over my shoulder.

"I think that is enough," she said. "Do you see anything objectionable in
my letter?"

How could I object to the letter? From beginning to end, it was strongly,
and yet moderately, expressed. I resigned my place at the desk, and the
widow wrote the fair copy, with her own hand. She made no change
whatever, except by adding these ominous lines as a postscript:

"I implore you not to drive me to despair. A mother who is pleading for
her child's life--it is nothing less, in this case--is a woman who surely
asserts a sacred claim. Let no wise man deny it."

"Do you think it quite discreet," I ventured to ask, "to add those
words?"

She looked at me with a moment's furtive scrutiny, and only answered
after she had sealed the letter, and placed it in my hands.

"I have my reasons," she replied. "Let the words remain."

Returning to the house at rather a late hour for Frankfort, I was
surprised to find Mr. Keller waiting to see me.

"I have had a talk with my partner," he said. "It has left (for the time
only, I hope), a painful impression on both sides--and I must ask you to
do me a service, in the place of Mr. Engelman--who has an engagement
to-morrow, which prevents him from leaving Frankfort."

His tone indicated plainly enough that the "engagement" was with Madame
Fontaine. Hard words must have passed between the two old friends on the
subject of the widow. Even Mr. Engelman's placid temper had, no doubt,
resented Mr. Keller's conduct at the meeting in the hall.

"The service I ask of you," he resumed, "will be easily rendered. The
proprietor of a commercial establishment at Hanau is desirous of entering
into business-relations with us, and has sent references to respectable
persons in the town and neighborhood, which it is necessary to verify. We
are so busy in the office that it is impossible for me to leave Frankfort
myself, or to employ our clerks on this errand. I have drawn out the
necessary instructions--and Hanau, as you are aware, is within an easy
distance of Frankfort. Have you any objection to be the representative of
the house in this matter?"

It is needless to say that I was gratified by the confidence that had
been placed in me, and eager to show that I really deserved it. We
arranged that I should leave Frankfort by the earliest conveyance the
next morning.

On our way upstairs to our bed-chambers, Mr. Keller detained me for a
moment more.

"I have no claim to control you in the choice of your friends," he said;
"but I am old enough to give you a word of advice. Don't associate
yourself too readily, David, with the woman whom I found here to-night."

He shook hands cordially, and left me. I thought of Madame Fontaine's
letter in my pocket, and felt a strong conviction that he would persist
in his refusal to read it.

The servants were the only persons stirring in the house, when I rose the
next morning. Unobserved by anyone, I placed the letter on the desk in
Mr. Keller's private room. That done, I started on my journey to Hanau.



CHAPTER XIV

Thanks to the instructions confided to me, my errand presented no
difficulties. There were certain persons to whom I was introduced, and
certain information to be derived from them, which it was my duty to
submit to Mr. Keller on my return. Fidelity was required of me, and
discretion was required of me--and that was all.

At the close of my day's work, the hospitable merchant, whose references
I had been engaged in verifying, refused to permit me to return to the
hotel. His dinner-hour had been put off expressly to suit my convenience.
"You will only meet the members of my family," he said, "and a cousin of
my wife's who is here with her daughter, on a visit to us--Frau Meyer, of
Wurzburg."

I accepted the invitation, feeling privately an Englishman's reluctance
to confronting an assembly of strangers, and anticipating nothing
remarkable in reference to Frau Meyer, although she did come from
Wurzburg. Even when I was presented to the ladies in due form, as "the
honored representative of Mr. Keller, of Frankfort," I was too stupid, or
too much absorbed in the business on which I had been engaged, to be much
struck by the sudden interest with which Frau Meyer regarded me. She was
a fat florid old lady, who looked coarsely clever and resolute; and she
had a daughter who promised to resemble her but too faithfully, in due
course of time. It was a relief to me, at dinner, to find myself placed
between the merchant's wife and her eldest son. They were far more
attractive neighbors at table, to my thinking, than Frau Meyer.

Dinner being over, we withdrew to another room to take our coffee. The
merchant and his son, both ardent musicians in their leisure hours,
played a sonata for pianoforte and violin. I was at the opposite
extremity of the room, looking at some fine proof impressions of prints
from the old masters, when a voice at my side startled me by an
unexpected question.

"May I ask, sir, if you are acquainted with Mr. Keller's son?"

I looked round, and discovered Frau Meyer.

"Have you seen him lately?" she proceeded, when I had acknowledged that I
was acquainted with Fritz. "And can you tell me where he is now?"

I answered both these questions. Frau Meyer looked thoroughly well
satisfied with me. "Let us have a little talk," she said, and seated
herself, and signed to me to take a chair near her.

"I feel a true interest in Fritz," she resumed, lowering her voice so as
not to be heard by the musicians at the other end of the room. "Until
to-day, I have heard nothing of him since he left Wurzburg. I like to
talk about him--he once did me a kindness a long time since. I suppose
you are in his confidence? Has he told you why his father sent him away
from the University?"

My reply to this was, I am afraid, rather absently given. The truth is,
my mind was running on some earlier words which had dropped from the old
lady's lips. "He once did me a kindness a long time since." When had I
last heard that commonplace phrase? and why did I remember it so readily
when I now heard it again?

"Ah, his father did a wise thing in separating him from that woman and
her daughter!" Frau Meyer went on. "Madame Fontaine deliberately
entrapped the poor boy into the engagement. But perhaps you are a friend
of hers? In that case, I retract and apologize."

"Quite needless," I said.

"You are _not_ a friend of Madame Fontaine?" she persisted.

This cool attempt to force an answer from me failed in its object. It was
like being cross-examined in a court of law; and, in our common English
phrase, "it set my back up." In the strict sense of the word, Madame
Fontaine might be termed an acquaintance, but certainly not a friend, of
mine. For once, I took the prudent course, and said, No.

Frau Meyer's expansive bosom emitted a hearty sigh of relief. "Ah!" she
said, "now I can talk freely--in Fritz's interest, mind. You are a young
man like himself, he will be disposed to listen to you. Do all you can to
back his father's influence, and cure him of his infatuation. I tell you
plainly, his marriage would be his ruin!"

"You speak very strongly, madam. Do you object to the young lady?"

"Not I; a harmless insignificant creature--nothing more and nothing less.
It's her vile mother that I object to."

"As I have heard, Frau Meyer, there are two sides to that question. Fritz
is persuaded that Madame Fontaine is an injured woman. He assures me, for
instance, that she is the fondest of mothers."

"Bah! What does _that_ amount to? It's as much a part of a woman's nature
to take to her child when she has got one, as it is to take to her dinner
when she is hungry. A fond mother? What stuff! Why, a cat is a fond
mother!--What's the matter?"

_A cat is a fond mother._ Another familiar phrase--and this time a phrase
remarkable enough to lead my memory back in the right direction. In an
instant I recollected the anonymous letter to Fritz. In an instant I felt
the conviction that Frau Meyer, in her eagerness to persuade me, had
unconsciously repeated two of the phrases which she had already used, in
her eagerness to persuade Fritz. No wonder I started in my chair, when I
felt that I was face to face with the writer of the anonymous letter!

I made some excuse--I forget what--and hastened to resume the
conversation. The opportunity of making discoveries which might be
invaluable to Fritz (to say nothing of good Mr. Engelman) was not an
opportunity to be neglected. I persisted in quoting Fritz's authority; I
repeated his assertion relative to the love of scandal at Wurzburg, and
the envy of Madame Fontaine's superior attractions felt among the ladies.
Frau Meyer laughed disdainfully.

"Poor Fritz!" she said. "An excellent disposition--but so easily
persuaded, so much too amiable. Our being all envious of Widow Fontaine
is too ridiculous. It is a mere waste of time to notice such nonsense.
Wait a little, Mr. David, and you will see. If you and Mr. Keller can
only keep Fritz out of the widow's way for a few months longer, his eyes
will be opened in spite of himself. He may yet come back to us with a
free heart, and he may choose his future wife more wisely next time."

As she said this her eyes wandered away to her daughter, at the other end
of the room. Unless her face betrayed her, she had evidently planned, at
some past time, to possess herself of Fritz as a son-in-law, and she had
not resigned the hope of securing him yet. Madame Fontaine might be a
deceitful and dangerous woman. But what sort of witness against her was
this abusive old lady, the unscrupulous writer of an anonymous letter?
"You prophesy very confidently about what is to come in the future," I
ventured to say.

Frau Meyer's red face turned a shade redder. "Does that mean that you
don't believe me?" she asked.

"Certainly not, madam. It only means that you speak severely of Doctor
Fontaine's widow--without mentioning any facts that justify you."

"Oh! you want facts, do you? I'll soon show you whether I know what I am
talking about or not. Has Fritz mentioned that among Madame Fontaine's
other virtues, she has paid her debts? I'll tell you how she has paid
them--as an example, young gentleman, that I am not talking at random.
Your admirable widow, sir, is great at fascinating old men; they are
always falling in love with her, the idiots! A certain old man at
Wurzburg--close on eighty, mind--was one of her victims. I had a letter
this morning which tells me that he was found dead in his bed, two days
since, and that his nephew is the sole heir to all that he leaves behind
him. Examination of his papers has shown that _he_ paid the widow's
creditors, and that he took a promissory note from her--ha! ha! ha!--a
promissory note from a woman without a farthing!--in payment of the sum
that he had advanced. The poor old man would, no doubt, have destroyed
the note if he had known that his end was so near. His sudden death has
transferred it to the hands of his heir. In money-matters, the nephew is
reported to be one of the hardest men living. When that note falls due,
he will present it for payment. I don't know where Madame Fontaine is
now. No matter! Sooner or later, she is sure to hear of what has
happened--and she must find the money, or see the inside of a debtor's
prison. Those are the facts that I had in my mind, Mr. David, when I
spoke of events opening Fritz's eyes to the truth."

I submitted with all possible humility to the lady's triumph over me. My
thoughts were with Minna. What a prospect for the innocent, affectionate
girl! Assuming the statement that I had just heard to be true, there was
surely a chance that Madame Fontaine (with time before her) might find
the money. I put this view of the case to Frau Meyer.

"If I didn't know Mr. Keller to be a thoroughly resolute man," she
answered, "I should say she might find the money too. She has only to
succeed in marrying her daughter to Fritz, and Mr. Keller would be
obliged to pay the money for the sake of the family credit. But he is one
of the few men whom she can't twist round her finger. If you ever fall in
with her, take care of yourself. She may find your influence with Fritz
an obstacle in her way--and she may give you reason to remember that the
mystery of her husband's lost chest of poisons is not cleared up yet. It
was all in the German newspapers--you know what I mean."

This seemed to me to be passing all bounds of moderation. "And _you_
know, madam," I answered sharply, "that there was no evidence against
her--nothing whatever to associate her with the robbery of the medicine
chest."

"Not even suspicion, Mr. David?"

"Not even suspicion."

I rose from my chair as I spoke. Minna was still in my thoughts; I was
not merely unwilling, I was almost afraid to hear more.

"One minute," said Frau Meyer. "Which of the two hotels here are you
staying at? I want to send you something to read to-night, after you have
left us."

I told her the name of the hotel; and we joined our friends at the other
end of the room. Not long afterwards I took my leave. My spirits were
depressed; a dark cloud of uncertainty seemed to hang over the future.
Even the prospect of returning to Frankfort, the next day, became
repellent to me. I was almost inclined to hope that my aunt might (as Mr.
Keller had predicted) recall me to London.



CHAPTER XV

From these reflections I was roused by the appearance of a waiter, with a
letter for me. The envelope contained a slip cut from a German newspaper,
and these lines of writing, signed by Frau Meyer:--

"You are either a very just, or a very obstinate young man. In either
case, it will do you no harm to read what I enclose. I am not such a
scandal-mongering old woman as you seem to think. The concealment of the
names will not puzzle you. Please return the slip. It belongs to our
excellent host, and forms part of his collection of literary
curiosities."

Such was the introduction to my reading. I translate it from the German
newspaper into English as literally as I can.

The Editor's few prefatory words were at the top of the column, bearing
the date of September 1828.

"We have received, in strictest confidence, extracts from letters written
by a lady to a once-beloved female friend. The extracts are dated and
numbered, and are literally presented in this column--excepting the
obviously necessary precaution of suppressing names, places, and days of
the month. Taken in connection with a certain inquiry which is just now
occupying the public mind, these fragments may throw some faint glimmer
of light on events which are at present involved in darkness."



_Number I._ 1809.--"Yes, dearest Julie, I have run the grand risk. Only
yesterday, I was married to Doctor ----. The people at the church were
our only witnesses.

"My father declares that I have degraded his noble blood by marrying a
medical man. He forbade my mother to attend the ceremony. Poor simple
soul! She asked me if I loved my young doctor, and was quite satisfied
when I said Yes. As for my father's objections, my husband is a man of
high promise in his profession. In his country--I think I told you in my
last letter that he was a Frenchman--a famous physician is ennobled by
the State. I shall leave no stone unturned, my dear, to push my husband
forward. And when he is made a Baron, we shall see what my father will
say to us then."



_Number II._ 1810.--"We have removed, my Julie, to this detestably dull
old German town, for no earthly reason but that the University is famous
as a medical school.

"My husband informs me, in his sweetest manner, that he will hesitate at
no sacrifice of our ordinary comforts to increase his professional
knowledge. If you could see how the ladies dress in this lost hole of a
place, if you could hear the twaddle they talk, you would pity me. I have
but one consolation--a lovely baby, Julie, a girl: I had almost said an
angel. Were you as fond of your first child, I wonder, as I am of mine?
And did you utterly forget your husband, when the little darling was
first put into your arms? Write and tell me."



_Number III._ 1811.--"I have hardly patience to take up my pen But I
shall do something desperate, if I don't relieve my overburdened mind in
some way.

"After I wrote to you last year, I succeeded in getting my husband away
from the detestable University. But he persisted in hanging about
Germany, and conferring with moldy old doctors (whom he calls "Princes of
Science"!) instead of returning to Paris, taking a handsome house, and
making his way to the top of the tree with my help. I am the very woman
to give brilliant parties, and to push my husband's interests with
powerful people of all degrees. No; I really must not dwell on it. When I
think of what has happened since, it will drive me mad.

"Six weeks ago, a sort of medical congress was announced to be at the
University. Something in the proposed discussion was to be made the
subject of a prize-essay. The doctor's professional interest in this
matter decided him on trying for the prize--and the result is our return
to the hateful old town and its society.

"Of course, my husband resumes his professional studies; of course, I am
thrown once more among the dowdy gossiping women. But that is far from
being the worst of it. Among the people in the School of Chemistry here,
there is a new man, who entered the University shortly after we left it
last year. This devil--it is the only right word for him--has bewitched
my weak husband; and, for all I can see to the contrary, has ruined our
prospects in life.

"He is a Hungarian. Small, dirty, lean as a skeleton, with hands like
claws, eyes like a wild beast's, and the most hideously false smile you
ever saw in a human face. What his history is, nobody knows. The people
at the medical school call him the most extraordinary experimental
chemist living. His ideas astonish the Professors themselves. The
students have named him 'The new Paracelsus.'

"I ventured to ask him, one day, if he believed he could make gold. He
looked at me with his frightful grin, and said, "Yes, and diamonds too,
with time and money to help me." He not only believes in The
Philosopher's Stone; he says he is on the trace of some explosive
compound so terrifically destructive in its effect, that it will make war
impossible. He declares that he will annihilate time and space by means
of electricity; and that he will develop steam as a motive power, until
travelers can rush over the whole habitable globe at the rate of a mile
in a minute.

"Why do I trouble you with these ravings? My dear, this boastful
adventurer has made himself master of my husband, has talked him out of
his senses, has reduced my influence over him to nothing. Do you think I
am exaggerating? Hear how it has ended. My husband absolutely refuses to
leave this place. He cares no longer even to try for the prize. The idea
of medical practice has become distasteful to him, and he has decided on
devoting his life to discovery in chemical science.

"And this is the man whom I married with the sincerest belief in the
brilliant social career that was before him! For this contemptible
creature I have sacrificed my position in the world, and alienated my
father from me for ever. I may look forward to being the wife of a poor
Professor, who shows experiments to stupid lads in a school. And the
friends in Paris, who, to my certain knowledge, are now waiting to give
him introductions to the Imperial Court itself, may transfer their
services to some other man.

"No words can tell you what I feel at this complete collapse of all my
hopes and plans. The one consideration of my child is all that restrains
me from leaving my husband, never to see him again. As it is, I must live
a life of deceit, and feign respect and regard for a man whom I despise
with my whole heart.

"Power--oh, if I had the power to make the fury that consumes me felt!
The curse of our sex is its helplessness. Every day, Julie, the
conviction grows on me that I shall end badly. Who among us knows the
capacity for wickedness that lies dormant in our natures, until the fatal
event comes and calls it forth?

"No! I am letting you see too much of my tortured soul. Let me close my
letter, and play with my child."



_Number IV._ 1812.--"My heartfelt congratulations, dearest, on your
return to Germany, after your pleasant visit to the United States. And
more congratulations yet on the large addition to your income, due to
your husband's intelligence and spirit of enterprise on American ground.
Ah, you have married a Man! Happy woman! I am married to a Machine.

"Why have I left your kind letters from America without reply? My Julie,
I have constantly thought of you; but the life I lead is slowly crushing
my energies. Over and over again, I have taken up my pen; and over and
over again, I have laid it aside, recoiling from the thought of myself
and my existence; too miserable (perhaps too proud) to tell you what a
wretched creature I am, and what thoughts come to me sometimes in the
wakeful hours of the night.

"After this confession, you wonder, perhaps, why I write to you now.

"I really believe it is because I have been threatened with legal
proceedings by my creditors, and have just come victoriously out of a
hard struggle to appease them for the time. This little fight has roused
me from my apathy; it has rallied my spirits, and made me feel like my
old self again. I am no longer content with silently loving my dearest
friend; I open my heart and write to her.

"'Oh, dear, how sad that she should be in debt!' I can hear you say
this, and sigh to yourself--you who have never known what it was to be in
want of money since you were born. Shall I tell you what my husband earns
at the University? No: I feel the blood rushing into my face at the bare
idea of revealing it.

"Let me do the Professor justice. My Animated Mummy has reached the
height of his ambition at last--he is Professor of Chemistry, and is
perfectly happy for the rest of his life. My dear, he is as lean, and
almost as dirty, as the wretch who first perverted him. Do you remember
my once writing to you about a mysterious Hungarian, whom we found in the
University? A few years since, this man died by suicide, as mysteriously
as he had lived. They found him in the laboratory, with a strange
inscription traced in chalk on the wall by which he lay dead. These were
the words:--'After giving it a fair trial, I find that life is not worth
living for. I have decided to destroy myself with a poison of my own
discovery. My chemical papers and preparations are hereby bequeathed to
my friend Doctor ----, and my body is presented as a free gift to the
anatomy school. Let a committee of surgeons and analysts examine my
remains. I defy them to discover a trace of the drug that has killed me.'
And they did try, Julie--and discovered nothing. I wonder whether the
suicide has left the receipt for that poison, among his other precious
legacies, to his 'friend Doctor ----.'

"Why do I trouble you with these nauseous details? Because they are in no
small degree answerable for my debts. My husband devotes all his leisure
hours to continuing the detestable experiments begun by the Hungarian;
and my yearly dress-money for myself and my child has been reduced one
half, to pay the chemical expenses.

"Ought I, in this hard case, to have diminished my expenditure to the
level of my reduced income?

"If you say Yes, I answer that human endurance has its limits. I can
support the martyrdom of my life; the loss of my dearest illusions and
hopes; the mean enmity of our neighbors; the foul-mouthed jealousy of the
women; and, more than all, the exasperating patience of a husband who
never resents the hardest things I can say to him, and who persists in
loving and admiring me as if we were only married last week. But I cannot
see my child in a stuff frock, on promenade days in the Palace Gardens,
when other people's children are wearing silk. And plain as my own dress
may be, I must and will have the best material that is made. When the
wife of the military commandant (a woman sprung from the people) goes out
in an Indian shawl with Brussels lace in her bonnet, am I to meet her and
return her bow, in a camelot cloak and a beaver hat? No! When I lose my
self-respect let me lose my life too. My husband may sink as low as he
pleases. I always have stood above him, and I always will!

"And so I am in debt, and my creditors threaten me. What does it matter?
I have pacified them, for the time, with some small installments of
money, and a large expenditure of smiles.

"I wish you could see my darling little Minna; she is the loveliest and
sweetest child in the world--my pride at all times, and my salvation in
my desperate moods. There are moments when I feel inclined to set fire to
the hateful University, and destroy all the moldy old creatures who
inhabit it. I take Minna out and buy her a little present, and see her
eyes sparkle and her color rise, and feel her innocent kisses, and
become, for awhile, quite a good woman again. Yesterday, her father--no,
I shall work myself up into a fury if I tell you about it. Let me only
say that Minna saved me as usual. I took her to the jeweler's and bought
her a pair of pearl earrings. If you could have heard her, if you could
have seen her, when the little angel first looked at herself in the
glass! I wonder when I shall pay for the earrings?

"Ah, Julie, if I only had such an income as yours, I would make my power
felt in this place. The insolent women should fawn on me and fear me. I
would have my own house and establishment in the country, to purify me
after the atmosphere of the Professor's drugs. I would--well! well! never
mind what else I would have.

"Talking of power, have you read the account of the execution last year
of that wonderful criminal, Anna Maria Zwanziger? Wherever she went, the
path of this terrific woman is strewed with the dead whom she has
poisoned. She appears to have lived to destroy her fellow-creatures, and
to have met her doom with the most undaunted courage. What a career! and
what an end! (1)

"The foolish people in Wurzburg are at a loss to find motives for some of
the murders she committed, and try to get out of the difficulty by
declaring that she must have been a homicidal maniac. That is not _my_
explanation. I can understand the murderess becoming morally intoxicated
with the sense of her own tremendous power. A mere human creature--only a
woman, Julie!--armed with the means of secretly dealing death with her,
wherever she goes--meeting with strangers who displease her, looking at
them quietly, and saying to herself, "I doom you to die, before you are a
day older"--is there no explanation, here, of some of Zwanziger's
poisonings which are incomprehensible to commonplace minds?

"I put this view, in talking of the trial, to the military commandant a
few days since. His vulgar wife answered me before he could speak.
'Madame Fontaine,' said this spitfire, 'my husband and I don't feel
_your_ sympathy with poisoners!' Take that as a specimen of the ladies of
Wurzburg--and let me close this unmercifully long letter. I think you
will acknowledge, my dear, that, when I do write, I place a flattering
trust in my friend's patient remembrance of me."

There the newspaper extracts came to an end.

As a picture of a perverted mind, struggling between good and evil, and
slowly losing ground under the stealthy influence of temptation, the
letters certainly possessed a melancholy interest for any thoughtful
reader. But (not being a spiteful woman) I failed to see, in these
extracts, the connection which Frau Meyer had attempted to establish
between the wickedness of Madame Fontaine and the disappearance of her
husband's medicine chest.

At the same time, I must acknowledge that a vague impression of distrust
_was_ left on my mind by what I had read. I felt a certain sense of
embarrassment at the prospect of renewing my relations with the widow, on
my return to Frankfort; and I was also conscious of a decided increase of
anxiety to hear what had been Mr. Keller's reception of Madame Fontaine's
letter. Add to this, that my brotherly interest in Minna was sensibly
strengthened--and the effect on me of the extracts in the newspaper is
truly stated, so far as I can remember it at this distant time.

On the evening of the next day, I was back again at Frankfort.


(1) The terrible career of Anna Maria Zwanziger, sentenced to death at
Bamberg in the year 1811, will be found related in Lady Duff-Gordon's
translation of Feuerbach's "Criminal Trials."



CHAPTER XVI

Mr. Keller and Mr. Engelman were both waiting to receive me. They looked
over my written report of my inquiries at Hanau, and expressed the
warmest approval of it. So far, all was well.

But, when we afterwards sat down to our supper, I noticed a change in the
two partners, which it was impossible to see without regret. On the
surface they were as friendly towards each other as ever. But a certain
constraint of look and manner, a palpable effort, on either side, to
speak with the old unsought ease and gaiety, showed that the disastrous
discovery of Madame Fontaine in the hall had left its evil results behind
it. Mr. Keller retired, when the meal was over, to examine my report
minutely in all its details.

When we were alone, Mr. Engelman lit his pipe. He spoke to me once more
with the friendly familiarity of past days--before he met the
too-fascinating widow on the bridge.

"My dear boy, tell me frankly, do you notice any change in Keller?"

"I see a change in both of you," I answered: "you are not such pleasant
companions as you used to be."

Mr. Engelman blew out a mouthful of smoke, and followed it by a heavy
sigh.

"Keller has become so bitter," he said. "His hasty temper I never
complained of, as you know. But in these later days he is hard--hard as
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
house, she could no longer expect him to help her to an interview with
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
answering the door. This last was a foolish young man, excessively vain
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?"

"Entirely through your kind sympathy, my friend," was the cool reply.

"My sympathy? What do you mean?"

"Was it not you, David, who considerately thought of Minna when the post
came in? And did you not send the man-servant to us, with her letter from
Fritz?"

The blubbering voice of Joseph, trembling for his situation, on the
landing outside, interrupted me before I could speak again.

"I'm sure I meant no harm, sir. I only said I was in a hurry to get back,
because you had all gone to the theater, and I was left (with nobody but
the kitchen girl) to take care of the house. When the lady came, and
showed me her drawing-book----"

"That will do, friend Joseph," said the widow, signing to him to go
downstairs in her easy self-possessed way. "Mr. David is too sensible to
take notice of trifles. There! there! go down," She turned to me, with an
expression of playful surprise. "How very serious you look!" she said
gaily.

"It might have been serious for _you,_ Madame Fontaine, if Mr. Keller had
returned to the house to fetch his opera-glass himself."

"Ah! he has left his opera-glass behind him? Let me help you to look for
it. I have done my sketch; I am quite at your service." She forestalled
me in finding the opera-glass. "I really had no other chance of making a
study of the chimney-piece," she went on, as she handed the glass to me.
"Impossible to ask Mr. Engelman to let me in again, after what happened
on the last occasion. And, if I must confess it, there is another motive
besides my admiration for the chimney-piece. You know how poor we are.
The man who keeps the picture-shop in the Zeil is willing to employ me.
He can always sell these memorials of old Frankfort to English travelers.
Even the few forms he gives me will find two half-starved women in
housekeeping money for a week."

It was all very plausible; and perhaps (in my innocent days before I met
with Frau Meyer) I might have thought it quite likely to be true. In my
present frame of mind, I only asked the widow if I might see her sketch.

She shook her head, and sheltered the drawing-book again under her shawl.

"It is little better than a memorandum at present," she explained. "Wait
till I have touched it up, and made it saleable--and I will show it to
you with pleasure. You will not make mischief, Mr. David, by mentioning
my act of artistic invasion to either of the old gentlemen? It shall not
be repeated--I give you my word of honor. There is poor Joseph, too. You
don't want to ruin a well-meaning lad, by getting him turned out of his
place? Of course not! We part as friends who understand each other, don't
we? Minna would have sent her love and thanks, if she had known I was to
meet you. Good-night."

She ran downstairs, humming a little tune to herself, as blithe as a
young girl. I heard a momentary whispering with Joseph in the hall. Then
the house-door closed--and there was an end of Madame Fontaine for that
time.

After no very long reflection, I decided that my best course would be to
severely caution Joseph, and to say nothing to the partners of what had
happened--for the present, at least. I should certainly do mischief, by
setting the two old friends at variance again on the subject of the
widow, if I spoke; to say nothing (as another result) of the likelihood
of Joseph's dismissal by Mr. Keller. Actuated by these reasonable
considerations, I am bound frankly to add that I must have felt some
vague misgivings as well. Otherwise, why did I carefully examine Mr.
Keller's room (before I returned to the theater), without any distinct
idea of any conceivable discovery that I might make? Not the vestige of a
suspicious appearance rewarded my search. The room was in its customary
state of order, from the razors and brushes on the toilet-table to the
regular night-drink of barley-water, ready as usual in the jug by the
bedside.

I left the bedchamber at last. Why was I still not at my ease? Why was I
rude enough, when I thought of the widow, to say to myself, "Damn her!"
Why did I find Gluck's magnificent music grow wearisome from want of
melody as it went on? Let the learned in such things realize my position,
and honor me by answering those questions for themselves.

We were quite gay at supper; the visit to the theater had roused the
spirits of the two partners, by means of a wholesome break in the
monotony of their lives. I had seldom seen Mr. Keller so easy and so
cheerful. Always an abstemious man, he exercised his usual moderation in
eating and drinking; and he was the first to go to bed. But, while he was
with us, he was, in the best sense of the word, a delightful companion;
and he looked forward to the next opera night with the glee of a
schoolboy looking forward to a holiday.



CHAPTER XVIII

The breakfast-room proved to be empty when I entered it the next morning.
It was the first time in my experience that I had failed to find Mr.
Keller established at the table. He had hitherto set the example of early
rising to his partner and to myself. I had barely noticed his absence,
when Mr. Engelman followed me into the room with a grave and anxious
face, which proclaimed that something was amiss.

"Where is Mr. Keller?" I asked.

"In bed, David."

"Not ill, I hope?"

"I don't know what is the matter with him, my dear boy. He says he has
passed a bad night, and he can't leave his bed and attend to business as
usual. Is it the close air of the theater, do you think?"

"Suppose I make him a comfortable English cup of tea?" I suggested.

"Yes, yes! And take it up yourself. I should like to know what you think
of him."

Mr. Keller alarmed me in the first moment when I looked at him. A
dreadful apathy had possessed itself of this naturally restless and
energetic man. He lay quite motionless, except an intermittent trembling
of his hands as they rested on the counterpane. His eyes opened for a
moment when I spoke to him--then closed again as if the effort of looking
at anything wearied him. He feebly shook his head when I offered him the
cup of tea, and said in a fretful whisper, "Let me be!" I looked at his
night-drink. The jug and glass were both completely empty. "Were you
thirsty in the night?" In the same fretful whisper he answered,
"Horribly!" "Are you not thirsty now?" He only repeated the words he had
first spoken--"Let me be!" There he lay, wanting nothing, caring for
not

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