Jezebel's Daughter [43]
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,
"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,