Jezebel's Daughter

by Wilkie Collins

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 su
ddenly 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