Jezebel's Daughter

by Wilkie Collins

Minna left us, with her pretty little head carried high in the air. "Mrs.

  Wagner is a person entirely without sentiment!" she indignantly whispered

  to me in passing, when I opened the door for her.

  "I declare that girl is absolute perfection!" my aunt exclaimed with

  enthusiasm. "The one thing she wanted, as I thought, was spirit--and I

  find she has got it. Ah! she will take Fritz in hand, and make something

  of him. He is one of the many men who absolutely need being henpecked. I

  prophesy confidently--their marriage will be a happy one."

  "I don't doubt it, aunt. But tell me, what are you going to say to Madame

  Fontaine?"

  "It depends on circumstances. I must know first if Mr. Engelman has

  really set his heart on the woman with the snaky movements and the sleepy

  eyes. Can you certify to that?"

  "Positively. Her refusal has completely crushed him."

  "Very well. Then I mean to make Madame Fontaine marry him--always

  supposing there is no other man in his way."

  "My dear aunt, how you talk! At Madame Fontaine's age! With a grown-up

  daughter!"

  "My dear nephew, you know absolutely nothing about women. Counting by

  years, I grant you they grow old. Counting by sensations, they remain

  young to the end of their days. Take a word of advice from me. The

  evidence of their gray hair may look indisputable; the evidence of their

  grown-up children may look indisputable. Don't believe it! There is but

  one period in the women's lives when you may feel quite certain that they

  have definitely given the men their dismissal--the period when they are

  put in their coffins. Hush! What's that outside? When there is a noisy

  silk dress and a silent foot on the stairs, in this house, I know already

  what it means. Be off with you!"

  She was quite right. Madame Fontaine entered, as I rose to leave the

  room.

  The widow showed none of her daughter's petulance. She was sweet and

  patient; she saluted Mrs. Wagner with a sad smile which seemed to say,

  "Outrage my most sacred feelings, dear madam; they are entirely at your

  disposal." If I had believed that my aunt had the smallest chance of

  carrying her point, I should have felt far from easy about Mr. Engelman's

  prospects. As it was, I left the two ladies to their fruitless interview,

  and returned composedly to my work.

  CHAPTER XXV

  When supper was announced, I went upstairs again to show my aunt the way

  to the room in which we took our meals.

  "Well?" I said.

  "Well," she answered coolly, "Madame Fontaine has promised to reconsider

  it."

  I confess I was staggered. By what possible motives could the widow have

  been animated? Even Mr. Engelman's passive assistance was now of no

  further importance to her. She had gained Mr. Keller's confidence; her

  daughter's marriage was assured; her employment in the house offered her

  a liberal salary, a respectable position, and a comfortable home. Why

  should she consent to reconsider the question of marrying a man, in whom

  she could not be said to feel any sort of true interest, in any possible

  acceptation of the words? I began to think that my aunt was right, and

  that I really did know absolutely nothing about women.

  At supper Madame Fontaine and her daughter were both unusually silent.

  Open-hearted Minna was not capable of concealing that her mother's

  concession had been made known to her in some way, and that the

  disclosure had disagreeably surprised her. However, there was no want of

  gaiety at the table--thanks to my aunt, and to her faithful attendant.

  Jack Straw followed us into the room, without waiting to be invited, and

  placed himself, to Joseph's disgust, behind Mrs. Wagner's chair.

  "Nobody waits on Mistress at table," he explained, "but me. Sometimes she

  gives me a bit or a drink over her shoulder. Very little drink--just a

  sip, and no more. I quite approve of only a sip myself. Oh, I know how to

  behave. None of your wine-merchant's fire in _my_ head; no Bedlam

  breaking loose again. Make your minds easy. There are no cooler brains

  among you than mine." At this, Fritz burst into one of his explosions of

  laughter. Jack appealed to Fritz's father, with unruffled gravity. "Your

  son, I believe, sir? Ha! what a blessing it is there's plenty of room for

  improvement in that young man. I only throw out a remark. If I was

  afflicted with a son myself, I think I should prefer David."

  This specimen of Jack's method of asserting himself, and other similar

  outbreaks which Fritz and I mischievously encouraged, failed apparently

  to afford any amusement to Madame Fontaine. Once she roused herself to

  ask Mr. Keller if his sister had written to him from Munich. Hearing that

  no reply had been received, she relapsed into silence. The old excuse of

  a nervous headache was repeated, when Mr. Keller and my aunt politely

  inquired if anything was amiss.

  When the letters were delivered the next morning, two among them were not

  connected with the customary business of the office. One (with the

  postmark of Bingen) was for me. And one (with the postmark of Wurzburg)

  was for Madame Fontaine. I sent it upstairs to her immediately.

  When I opened my own letter, I found sad news of poor Mr. Engelman. Time

  and change had failed to improve his spirits. He complained of a feeling

  of fullness and oppression in his head, and of hissing noises in his

  ears, which were an almost constant annoyance to him. On two occasions he

  had been cupped, and had derived no more than a temporary benefit from

  the employment of that remedy. His doctor recommended strict attention to

  diet, and regular exercise. He submitted willingly to the severest rules

  at table--but there was no rousing him to exert himself in any way. For

  hours together, he would sit silent in one place, half sleeping, half

  waking; noticing no one, and caring for nothing but to get to his bed as

  soon as possible.

  This statement of the case seemed to me to suggest very grave

  considerations. I could no longer hesitate to inform Mr. Keller that I

  had received intelligence of his absent partner, and to place my letter

  in his hands.

  Whatever little disagreements there had been between them were instantly

  forgotten. I had never before seen Mr. Keller so distressed and so little

  master of himself.

  "I must go to Engelman directly," he said.

  I ventured to submit that there were two serious objections to his doing

  this: In the first place, his presence in the office was absolutely

  necessary. In the second place, his sudden appearance at Bingen would

  prove to be a serious, perhaps a fatal, shock to his old friend.

  "What is to be done, then?" he exclaimed.

  "I think my aunt may be of some use, sir, in this emergency."

  "Your aunt? How can she help us?"

  I informed him of my aunt's project; and I added that Madame Fontaine had

  not positively said No. He listened without conviction, frowning and

  shaking his head.

  "Mrs. Wagner is a very impetuous person," he said. "She doesn't

  understand a complex nature like Madame Fontaine's."


  "At least I may show my aunt the letter from Bingen, sir?"

  "Yes. It can do no harm, if it does no good."

  On my way to my aunt's room, I encountered Minna on the stairs. She was

  crying. I naturally asked what was the matter.

  "Don't stop me!" was the only answer I received.

  "But where are you going, Minna?"

  "I am going to Fritz, to be comforted."

  "Has anybody behaved harshly to you?"

  "Yes, mamma has behaved harshly to me. For the first time in my life,"

  said the spoilt child, with a strong sense of injury, "she has locked the

  door of her room, and refused to let me in."

  "But why?"

  "How can I tell? I believe it has something to do with that horrid man I

  told you of. You sent a letter upstairs this morning. I met Joseph on the

  landing, and took the letter to her myself. Why shouldn't I look at the

  postmark? Where was the harm in saying to her, 'A letter, mamma, from

  Wurzburg'? She looked at me as if I had mortally offended her--and

  pointed to the door, and locked herself in. I have knocked twice, and

  asked her to forgive me. Not a word of answer either time! I consider

  myself insulted. Let me go to Fritz."

  I made no attempt to detain her. She had set those every-ready suspicions

  of mine at work again.

  Was the letter which I had sent upstairs a reply to the letter which

  Minna had seen her mother writing? Was the widow now informed that the

  senile old admirer who had advanced the money to pay her creditors had

  been found dead in his bed? and that her promissory note had passed into

  the possession of the heir-at-law? If this was the right reading of the

  riddle, no wonder she had sent her daughter out of the room--no wonder

  she had locked her door!

  My aunt wasted no time in expressions of grief and surprise, when she was

  informed of Mr. Engelman's state of health. "Send the widow here

  directly," she said. "If there is anything like a true heart under that

  splendid silk dress of hers, I shall write and relieve poor Engelman by

  to-night's post."

  To confide my private surmises, even to my aunt, would have been an act

  of inexcusable imprudence, to say the least of it. I could only reply

  that Madame Fontaine was not very well, and was (as I had heard from

  Minna) shut up in the retirement of her own room.

  The resolute little woman got on her feet instantly. "Show me where she

  is, David--and leave the rest to me."

  I led her to the door, and was dismissed with these words--"Go and wait

  in my room till I come back to you." As I retired, I heard a smart knock,

  and my aunt's voice announcing herself outside--"Mrs. Wagner, ma'am, with

  something serious to say to you." The reply was inaudible. Not so my

  aunt's rejoinder: "Oh, very well! Just read that letter, will you? I'll

  push it under the door, and wait for an answer." I lingered for a minute

  longer--and heard the door opened and closed again.

  In little more than half an hour, my aunt returned. She looked serious

  and thoughtful. I at once anticipated that she had failed. Her first

  words informed me that I was wrong.

  "I've done it," she said. "I am to write to Engelman to-night; and I have

  the widow's permission to tell him that she regrets her hasty decision.

  Her own words, mind, when I asked her how I should put it!"

  "So there is a true heart under that splendid silk dress of hers?" I

  said.

  My aunt walked up and down the room, silent and frowning--discontented

  with me, or discontented with herself; it was impossible to tell which.

  On a sudden, she sat down by me, and hit me a smart slap on the shoulder.

  "David!" she said, "I have found out something about myself which I never

  suspected before. If you want to see a cold-blooded wretch, look at me!"

  It was so gravely said, and so perfectly absurd, that I burst out

  laughing. She was far too seriously perplexed about herself to take the

  smallest notice of my merriment.

  "Do you know," she resumed, "that I actually hesitate to write to

  Engelman? David! I ought to be whipped at the cart's tail. I don't

  believe in Madame Fontaine."

  She little knew how that abrupt confession interested me. "Tell me why!"

  I said eagerly.

  "That's the disgraceful part of it," she answered. "I can't tell you why.

  Madame Fontaine spoke charmingly--with perfect taste and feeling. And all

  the time some devilish spirit of distrust kept whispering to me, "Don't

  believe her; she has her motive!" Are you sure, David, it is only a

  little illness that makes her shut herself up in her room, and look so

  frightfully pale and haggard? Do you know anything about her affairs?

  Engelman is rich; Engelman has a position. Has she got into some

  difficulty since she refused him? and could he, by the barest

  possibility, be of any use in helping her out of it?"

  I declare solemnly that the idea suggested by my aunt never occurred to

  me until she asked those questions. As a rejected suitor, Mr. Engelman

  could be of no possible use to the widow. But suppose he was her accepted

  husband? and suppose the note fell due before Minna was married? In that

  case, Mr. Engelman might unquestionably be of use--he might lend the

  money.

  My aunt's sharp eyes were on me. "Out with it, David!" she cried. "You

  don't believe in her, either--and you know why."

  "I know absolutely nothing," I rejoined; "I am guessing in the dark; and

  the event may prove that I am completely at fault. Don't ask me to

  degrade Madame Fontaine's character in your estimation, without an atom

  of proof to justify what I say. I have something to propose which I think

  will meet the difficulty."

  With a strong exercise of self-restraint, my aunt resigned herself to

  listen. "Let's hear your proposal," she said. "Have you any Scotch blood

  in your veins, David? You are wonderfully prudent and cautious for so

  young a man.

  I went straight on with what I had to say.

  "Send the widow's message to Mr. Engelman, by all means," I proceeded;

  "but not by post. I was with him immediately after his offer of marriage

  had been refused; and it is my belief that he is far too deeply wounded

  by the manner in which Madame Fontaine expressed herself when she

  rejected him, to be either able, or willing, to renew his proposal. I

  even doubt if he will believe in her expression of regret. This view of

  mine may turn out, of course, to be quite wrong; but let us at least put

  it to the test. I can easily get leave of absence for a few days. Let me

  take your letter to Bingen tomorrow, and see with my own eyes how it is

  received."

  At last I was fortunate enough to deserve my aunt's approval. "An

  excellent suggestion," she said. "But--I believe I have caught the

  infection of your prudence, David--don't let us tell Madame Fontaine. Let

  her suppose that you have gone to Bingen in consequence of the

  unfavorable news of Engelman's health." She paused, and considered a

  little. "Or, better still, Bingen is on the way to England. There will be

  nothing extraordinary in your stopping to visit Engelman, on your jou
rney

  to London.

  This took me completely, and far from agreeably, by surprise. I said

  piteously, "Must I really leave Frankfort?"

  "My good fellow, I have other interests to consider besides Engelman's

  interests," my aunt explained. "Mr. Hartrey is waiting to hear from me.

  There is no hope that Engelman will be able to travel to London, in his

  present state of health, and no possibility of Mr. Keller taking his

  place until something is settled at Frankfort. I want you to explain all

  this to Mr. Hartrey, and to help him in the management of the business.

  There is nobody else here, David, whom I can trust, as I trust you. I see

  no alternative but to ask you to go to London."

  On my side, I had no alternative but to submit--and, what is more

  (remembering all that I owed to my aunt), to submit with my best grace.

  We consulted Mr. Keller; and he entirely agreed that I was the fittest

  person who could be found to reconcile Mr. Hartrey to the commercial

  responsibilities that burdened him. After a day's delay at Bingen, to

  study the condition of Mr. Engelman's health and to write the fullest

  report to Frankfort, the faster I could travel afterwards, and the sooner

  I could reach London, the better.

  So hard necessity compelled me to leave the stage, before the curtain

  rose on the final acts of the drama. The mail-post started at six in the

  morning. I packed up, and took leave of everybody, overnight--excepting

  Madame Fontaine, who still kept her room, and who was not well enough to

  see me. The dear kind-hearted Minna offered me her cheek to kiss, and

  made me promise to return for her marriage. She was strangely depressed

  at my departure. "You first consoled me," she said; "you have brought me

  happiness. I don't like your leaving us. Oh, David, I do wish you were

  not going away!" "Come! come!" my aunt interposed; "no crying, young

  lady! Always keep a man's spirits up when he leaves you. Give me a good

  hug, David--and think of the time when you will be a partner in the

  business." Ah! what a woman she was! Look as you may, my young friends,

  you will not find the like of her now.

  Jack Straw was the one person up and stirring when the coach stopped the

  next morning at the door. I expected to be amused--but there was no

  reckoning with Jack. His farewell words literally frightened me.

  "I say!" he whispered, as I hurried into the hall, "there's one thing I

  want to ask you before you go."

  "Be quick about it, Jack."

  "All right, David. I had a talk with Minna yesterday, about Mr. Keller's

  illness. Is it true that he was cured out of the blue-glass bottle?"

  "Perfectly true.

  "Look here, David! I have been thinking of it all night. _I_ was cured

  out of the blue-glass bottle."

  I suddenly stood still, with my eyes riveted on his face. He stepped

  close up to me, and lowered his voice suddenly.

  "And _I_ was poisoned," he said. "What I want to know is--Who poisoned

  Mr. Keller?"

  BETWEEN THE PARTS

  MR. DAVID GLENNEY PRODUCES HIS CORRESPONDENCE, AND THROWS SOME NEW LIGHTS

  ON THE STORY

  I

  Be pleased to read the following letter from Mr. Lawyer's-Clerk-Schmuckle

  to Mr. Town-Councilor-Hof:

  "My honored Sir,--I beg to report that you may make your mind easy on the

  subject of Madame Fontaine. If she leaves Frankfort, she will not slip

  away privately as she did at Wurzburg. Wherever she may go now, we need

  not apply again to her relations in this place to help us to find her.

  Henceforth I undertake to keep her in view until the promissory note

  falls due.

  "The lady is at present established as housekeeper in the employment of

  the firm of Wagner, Keller, and Engelman; and there (barring accidents,