Jezebel's Daughter

by Wilkie Collins

do anything clever I always fail. She was very forbearing with me at

  first; she said No, but she said it considerately, as if she felt for me.

  I presumed on her kindness, like a fool; I couldn't help it, David, I was

  so fond of her. I pressed her to say why she refused me. I was mad enough

  to ask if there was some other man whom she preferred. Oh, she said some

  hard things to me in her anger! And, worse still, when I went down on my

  knees to her, she said, 'Get up, you old fool!'--and laughed--and left

  me. Take me away somewhere, David; I am to old to get over it, if I stay

  here. I can never see her or speak to her again. Take me to England with

  you--and, oh, don't tell Keller!"

  He burst into another fit of tears. It was dreadful to see and hear him.

  I tried to think of some consoling words. Before I could give expression

  to my thought, the door of the room was gently opened; and Madame

  Fontaine herself stood before us. Her eyes looked at Mr. Engelman from

  under their heavy lids, with a quiet and scornful compassion. The poor

  wretch was of no further use to her. Quite needless to be on her best

  behavior with him now!

  "There is not the least occasion, sir, to disturb yourself," she said.

  "It is _my_ duty to leave the house--and I will do it."

  Without waiting to be answered, she turned back to the door, and left us.

  CHAPTER XXII

  "For heaven's sake, sir, allow me to go!"

  "On no account, Madame Fontaine. If you won't remain here, in justice to

  yourself, remain as a favor to me."

  When I opened my bedroom door the next morning, the widow and Mr. Keller

  were on the landing outside, and those were the words exchanged between

  them.

  Mr. Keller approached, and spoke to me.

  "What do you know, David, about the disappearance of Mr. Engelman?"

  "Disappearance?" I repeated. "I was with him yesterday evening--and I

  bade him good-night in his own room."

  "He must have left the house before the servants were up this morning,"

  said Mr. Keller. "Read that."

  He handed me a morsel of paper with writing on it in pencil:--

  "Forgive me, dear friend and partner, for leaving you without saying

  good-bye; also for burdening you with the direction of business, before

  you are perhaps strong enough to accept the charge. My mind is in such a

  state of confusion that I should be worse than useless in the office.

  While I write this, my poor weak head burns as if there was fire in it. I

  cannot face _her,_ I cannot face _you_--I must go, before I lose all

  control over myself. Don't attempt to trace me. If change and absence

  restore me to myself I will return. If not, a man at my age and in my

  state of mind is willing to die. Please tell Madame Fontaine that I ask

  her pardon with all my heart. Good-bye--and God bless and prosper you."

  I was unaffectedly distressed. There was something terrible in this

  sudden break-up of poor Engelman's harmless life--something cruel and

  shocking in the passion of love fixing its relentless hold on an innocent

  old man, fast nearing the end of his days. There are hundreds of examples

  of this deplorable anomaly in real life; and yet, when we meet with it in

  our own experience, we are always taken by surprise, and always ready to

  express doubt or derision when we hear of it in the experience of others.

  Madame Fontaine behaved admirably. She sat down on the window-seat at the

  end of the landing, and wrung her hands with a gesture of despair.

  "Oh!" she said, "if he had asked me for anything else! If I could have

  made any other sacrifice to him! God knows I never dreamed of it; I never

  gave him the smallest encouragement. We might have all been so happy

  together here--and I, who would have gone to the world's end to serve Mr.

  Keller and Mr. Engelman, I am the unhappy creature who has broken up the

  household!"

  Mr. Keller was deeply affected. He sat down on the window-seat by Madame

  Fontaine.

  "My dear, dear lady," he said, "you are entirely blameless in this

  matter. Even my unfortunate partner feels it, and asks your pardon. If

  inquiries can discover him, they shall be set on foot immediately. In the

  meantime, let me entreat you to compose yourself. Engelman has perhaps

  done wisely, to leave us for a time. He will get over his delusion, and

  all may be well yet."

  I went downstairs, not caring to hear more. All my sympathies, I confess,

  were with Mr. Engelman--though he _was_ a fat simple old man. Mr. Keller

  seemed to me (here is more of the "old head on young shoulders!") to have

  gone from one extreme to the other. He had begun by treating the widow

  with unbecoming injustice; and he was now flattering her with

  unreasonable partiality.

  For the next few days there was tranquillity, if not happiness, in the

  house. Mr. Keller wrote to his sister in Munich, inviting her to mention

  the earliest date at which it might suit her convenience to be present at

  the marriage of his son. Madame Fontaine assumed the regular management

  of our domestic affairs. Fritz and Minna found sufficient attraction in

  each other's society. The new week was just beginning, and our inquiries

  after Mr. Engelman had thus far led to no result--when I received a

  letter containing news of the fugitive, confided to me under strict

  reserve.

  The writer of the letter proved to be a married younger brother of Mr.

  Engelman, residing at Bingen, on the Rhine.

  "I write to you, dear sir, at my brother's request. My wife and I are

  doing all that we can to relieve and comfort him, but his mind has not

  yet sufficiently recovered to enable him to write to you himself. He

  desires to thank you heartily for your sympathy, at the most trying

  period of his life; and he trusts to your kindness to let him hear, from

  time to time, of Mr. Keller's progress towards recovery, and of the

  well-being of the business. In addressing your letters to me at Bingen,

  you will be pleased to consider the information of my brother's

  whereabouts herein afforded to you as strictly confidential, until you

  hear from me to the contrary. In his present frame of mind, it would be

  in the last degree painful to him to be made the subject of inquiries,

  remonstrances, or entreaties to return."

  The arrival of this sad news proved to be not the only noteworthy event

  of the day. While I was still thinking of poor Mr. Engelman, Fritz came

  into the office with his hat in his hand.

  "Minna is not in very good spirits this morning," he said. "I am going to

  take her out for half an hour to look at the shops. Can you come with

  us?"

  This invitation rather surprised me. "Does Minna wish it?" I asked.

  Fritz dropped his voice so that the clerks in the room could not hear his

  reply. "Minna has sent me to you," he answered. "She is uneasy about her

  mother. I can make nothing of it--and she wants to ask your advice."

  It was impossible for me to leave my desk at that moment. We arranged to

  put off the walk until after dinner. During the meal, I observed that not

  Minna only, but her mother also, appeared to be out of spirits. Mr.
<
br />   Keller and Fritz probably noticed the change as I did. We were all of us

  more silent than usual. It was a relief so find myself with the lovers,

  out in the cheerful street.

  Minna seemed to want to be encouraged before she could speak to me. I was

  obliged to ask in plain words if anything had happened to annoy her

  mother and herself.

  "I hardly know how to tell you," she said. "I am very unhappy about my

  mother."

  "Begin at the beginning," Fritz suggested; "tell him where you went, and

  what happened yesterday."

  Minna followed her instructions. "Mamma and I went to our lodgings

  yesterday," she began. "We had given notice to leave when it was settled

  we were to live in Mr. Keller's house. The time was nearly up; and there

  were some few things still left at the apartments, which we could carry

  away in our hands. Mamma, who speaks considerately to everybody, said she

  hoped the landlady would soon let the rooms again. The good woman

  answered: 'I don't quite know, madam, whether I have not let them

  already.'--Don't you think that rather a strange reply?"

  "It seems to require some explanation, certainly. What did the landlady

  say?"

  "The landlady's explanation explained nothing," Fritz interposed. "She

  appears to have spoken of a mysterious stranger, who had once before

  inquired if Madame Fontaine was likely to leave the lodgings--and who

  came yesterday to inquire again. You tell him the rest of it, Minna."

  Before she could speak, I had already recognized the suspicious-looking

  personage whom Mr. Engelman and I had some time since encountered on the

  door-step. I inquired what the man had said when he heard that the

  lodgings were to let.

  "There is the suspicious part of it," cried Fritz. "Be very particular,

  Minna, to leave nothing out."

  Fritz's interruptions seemed only to confuse Minna. I begged him to be

  silent, and did my best to help her to find the lost thread of her story.

  "Did the man ask to see the lodgings?" I said.

  "No."

  "Did he talk of taking the lodgings?"

  "He said he wished to have the refusal of them until the evening," Minna

  replied; "and then he asked if Madame Fontaine had left Frankfort. When

  the landlady said No, he had another question ready directly. He wanted

  to know in what part of Frankfort Madame Fontaine was now living."

  "And the old fool of a landlady actually told him the address," said

  Fritz, interrupting again.

  "And, I am afraid, did some serious mischief by her folly," Minna added.

  "I saw mamma start and turn pale. She said to the landlady, 'How long ago

  did this happen?' 'About half an hour ago,' the landlady answered. 'Which

  way did he turn when he left you--towards Mr. Keller's house or the other

  way?' The landlady said, 'Towards Mr. Keller's house.' Without another

  word, mamma took me by the arm. 'It's time we were home again,' she

  said--and we went back at once to the house."

  "You were too late, of course, to find the man there?"

  "Yes, David--but we heard of him. Mamma asked Joseph if anyone had called

  while we were out. Joseph said a stranger had called, and had inquired if

  Madame Fontaine was at home. Hearing that she was out, he had said, 'I

  think I had better write to her. She is here for a short time only, I

  believe?' And innocent Joseph answered, 'Oh, dear no! Madame Fontaine is

  Mr. Keller's new housekeeper.' 'Well?' mamma asked, 'and what did he say

  when he heard that?' 'He said nothing,' Joseph answered, 'and went away

  directly.' "

  "Was that all that passed between your mother and Joseph?"

  "All," Minna replied. "My mother wouldn't even let me speak to her. I

  only tried to say a few words of sympathy--and I was told sharply to be

  silent. 'Don't interrupt me,' she said, 'I want to write a letter.' "

  "Did you see the letter?"

  "Oh, no! But I was so anxious and uneasy that I did peep over her

  shoulder while she was writing the address."

  "Do you remember what it was?"

  "I only saw the last word on it. The last word was 'Wurzburg.' "

  "Now you know as much as we do," Fritz resumed. "How does it strike you,

  David? And what do you advise?"

  How could I advise? I could only draw my own conclusions privately.

  Madame Fontaine's movements were watched by somebody; possibly in the

  interests of the stranger who now held the promissory note. It was, of

  course, impossible for me to communicate this view of the circumstances

  to either of my two companions. I could only suggest a patient reliance

  on time, and the preservation of discreet silence on Minna's part, until

  her mother set the example of returning to the subject.

  My vaguely-prudent counsels were, naturally enough, not to the taste of

  my young hearers. Fritz openly acknowledged that I had disappointed him;

  and Minna turned aside her head, with a look of reproach. Her quick

  perception had detected, in my look and manner, that I was keeping my

  thoughts to myself. Neither she nor Fritz made any objection to my

  leaving them, to return to the office before post-time. I wrote to Mr.

  Engelman before I left my desk that evening.

  Recalling those memorable days of my early life, I remember that a

  strange and sinister depression pervaded our little household, from the

  time when Mr. Engelman left us.

  In some mysterious way the bonds of sympathy, by which we had been

  hitherto more or less united, seemed to slacken and fall away. We lived

  on perfectly good terms with one another; but there was an unrecognized

  decrease of confidence among us, which I for one felt sometimes almost

  painfully. An unwholesome atmosphere of distrust enveloped us. Mr. Keller

  only believed, under reserve, that Madame Fontaine's persistent low

  spirits were really attributable, as she said, to nothing more important

  than nervous headaches. Fritz began to doubt whether Mr. Keller was

  really as well satisfied as he professed to be with the choice that his

  son had made of a portionless bride. Minna, observing that Fritz was

  occasionally rather more subdued and silent than usual, began to ask

  herself whether she was quite as dear to him, in the time of their

  prosperity, as in the time of their adversity. To sum up all, Madame

  Fontaine had her doubts of me--and I had my doubts (although she _had_

  saved Mr. Keller's life) of Madame Fontaine.

  From this degrading condition of dullness and distrust, we were roused,

  one morning, by the happy arrival of Mrs. Wagner, attended by her maid,

  her courier--and Jack Straw.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Circumstances had obliged my aunt to perform the last stage of her

  journey to Frankfort by the night mail. She had only stopped at our house

  on her way to the hotel; being unwilling to trespass on the hospitality

  of her partners, while she was accompanied by such a half-witted fellow

  as Jack. Mr. Keller, however, refused even to hear of the head partner in

  the business being reduced to accept a mercenary welcome at an hotel. One

  whole side of the house, situated immediately over the offices, had been

  alr
eady put in order in anticipation of Mrs. Wagner's arrival. The

  luggage was then and there taken off the carriage; and my aunt was

  obliged, by all the laws of courtesy and good fellowship, to submit.

  This information was communicated to me by Joseph, on my return from an

  early visit to one of our warehouses at the riverside. When I asked if I

  could see my aunt, I was informed that she had already retired to rest in

  her room, after the fatigue of a seven hours' journey by night.

  "And where is Jack Straw?" I asked.

  "Playing the devil already, sir, with the rules of the house," Joseph

  answered.

  Fritz's voice hailed me from the lower regions.

  "Come down, David; here's something worth seeing!"

  I descended at once to the servants' offices. There, crouched up in a

  corner of the cold stone corridor which formed the medium of

  communication between the kitchen and the stairs, I saw Jack Straw

  again--in the very position in which I had found him at Bedlam; excepting

  the prison, the chains, and the straw.

  But for his prematurely gray hair and the strange yellow pallor of his

  complexion, I doubt if I should have recognized him again. He looked fat

  and happy; he was neatly and becomingly dressed, with a flower in his

  button-hole and rosettes on his shoes. In one word, so far as his costume

  was concerned, he might have been taken for a lady's page, dressed under

  the superintendence of his mistress herself.

  "There he is!" said Fritz, "and there he means to remain, till your aunt

  wakes and sends for him."

  "Upsetting the women servants, on their way to their work," Joseph added,

  with an air of supreme disgust--"and freezing in that cold corner, when

  he might be sitting comfortably by the kitchen fire!"

  Jack listened to this with an ironical expression of approval. "That's

  very well said, Joseph," he remarked. "Come here; I want to speak to you.

  Do you see that bell?" He pointed to a row of bells running along the

  upper wall of the corridor, and singled out one of them which was

  numbered ten. "They tell me that's the bell of Mistress's bedroom," he

  resumed, still speaking of my aunt by the name which he had first given

  to her on the day when they met in the madhouse. "Very well, Joseph! I

  don't want to be in anybody's way; but no person in the house must see

  that bell ring before me. Here I stay till Mistress rings--and then you

  will get rid of me; I shall move to the mat outside her door, and wait

  till she whistles for me. Now you may go. That's a poor half-witted

  creature," he said as Joseph retired. "Lord! what a lot of them there are

  in this world!" Fritz burst out laughing. "I'm afraid you're another of

  them," said Jack, looking at him with an expression of the sincerest

  compassion.

  "Do you remember me?" I asked.

  Jack nodded his head in a patronizing way. "Oh, yes--Mistress has been

  talking of you. I know you both. You're David, and he's Fritz. All right!

  all right!"

  "What sort of journey from London have you had?" I inquired next.

  He stretched out his shapely little arms and legs, and yawned. "Oh, a

  pretty good journey. We should have been better without the courier and

  the maid. The courier is a tall man. I have no opinion of tall men. I am

  a man myself of five foot--that's the right height for a courier. I could

  have done all the work, and saved Mistress the money. Her maid is another

  tall person; clumsy with her fingers. I could dress Mistress's hair a

  deal better than the maid, if she would only let me. The fact is, I want

  to do everything for her myself. I shall never be quite happy till I'm

  the only servant she has about her."

  "Ah, yes," said Fritz, good-naturedly sympathizing with him. "You're a