Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1087 page)

Minna’s voice faltered; she stopped at the most interesting part of her narrative.

“What did Mr. Keller say?” I asked.

“There was silence in the room,” Minna answered softly. “I heard nothing except the ticking of the clock.”

“But you must have seen something?”

“No, David. I couldn’t help it — I was crying. After a while, my mother put her arm round me and led me to Mr. Keller. I dried my eyes as well as I could, and saw him again. His head was bent down on his breast — his hands hung helpless over the arms of the chair — it was dreadful to see him so overwhelmed by shame and sorrow! ‘What can I do?’ he groaned to himself. ‘God help me, what can I do?’ Mamma spoke to him — so sweetly and so prettily — ’You can give this poor girl of mine a kiss, sir; the new servant who has waited on you is my daughter Minna.’ He looked up quickly, and drew me to him. ‘I can make but one atonement, my dear,’ he said — and then he kissed me, and whispered, ‘Send for Fritz.’ Oh, don’t ask me to tell you any more, David; I shall only begin crying again — and I am so happy!”

She left me to write to Fritz by that night’s post. I tried vainly to induce her to wait a little. We had no electric telegraphs at our disposal, and we were reduced to guessing at events. But there was certainly a strong probability that Fritz might have left London immediately on the receipt of Mr. Engelman’s letter, announcing that his father was dangerously ill. In this case, my letter, despatched by the next mail to relieve his anxiety, would be left unopened in London; and Fritz might be expected to arrive (if he traveled without stopping) in the course of the next day or two. I put this reasonable view of the matter to Minna, and received a thoroughly irrational and womanly reply.

“I don’t care, David; I shall write to him, for all that.”

“Why?”

“Because I like writing to him.

“What! whether he receives your letter or not?”

“Whether he receives it or not,” she answered saucily, “I shall have the pleasure of writing to him — that is all I want.”

She covered four pages of note-paper, and insisted on posting them herself.

The next morning Mr. Keller was able, with my help and Mr. Engelman’s, to get downstairs to the sitting-room. We were both with him, when Madame Fontaine came in.

“Well,” he asked, “have you brought it with you?”

She handed to him a sealed envelope, and then turned to explain herself to me.

“The letter that you put on Mr. Keller’s desk,” she said pleasantly. “This time, David, I act as my own postman — at Mr. Keller’s request.”

In her place, I should certainly have torn it up. To keep it, on the bare chance of its proving to be of some use in the future, seemed to imply either an excessive hopefulness or an extraordinary foresight, on the widow’s part. Without in the least comprehending my own state of mind, I felt that she had, in some mysterious way, disappointed me by keeping that letter. As a matter of course, I turned to leave the room, and Mr. Engelman (from a similar motive of delicacy) followed me to the door. Mr. Keller called us both back.

“Wait, if you please,” he said, “until I have read it.”

Madame Fontaine was looking out of the window. It was impossible for us to discover whether she approved of our remaining in the room or not.

Mr. Keller read the closely written pages with the steadiest attention. He signed to the widow to approach him, and took her hand when he had arrived at the last words.

“Let me ask your pardon,” he said, “in the presence of my partner and in the presence of David Glenney, who took charge of your letter. Madame Fontaine, I speak the plain truth, in the plainest words, when I tell you that I am ashamed of myself.”

She dropped on her knees before him, and entreated him to say no more. Mr. Engelman looked at her, absorbed in admiration. Perhaps it was the fault of my English education — I thought the widow’s humility a little overdone. What Mr. Keller’s opinion might be, he kept to himself. He merely insisted on her rising, and taking a chair by his side.

“To say that I believe every word of your letter,” he resumed, “is only to do you the justice which I have too long delayed. But there is one passage which I must feel satisfied that I thoroughly understand, if you will be pleased to give me the assurance of it with your own lips. Am I right in concluding, from what is here written of your husband’s creditors, that his debts (which have now, in honour, become your debts) have been all actually
paid
to the last farthing?”

“To the last farthing!” Madame Fontaine answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “I can show you the receipts, sir, if you like.”

“No, madam! I take your word for it — I require nothing more. Your title to my heart-felt respect is now complete. The slanders which I have disgraced myself by believing would never have found their way to my credulity, if they had not first declared you to have ruined your husband by your debts. I own that I have never been able to divest myself of my inbred dislike and distrust of people who contract debts which they are not able to pay. The light manner in which the world is apt to view the relative positions of debtor and creditor is abhorrent to me. If I promise to pay a man money, and fail to keep my promise, I am no better than a liar and a cheat. That always has been, and always will be,
my
view.” He took her hand again as he made that strong declaration. “There is another bond of sympathy between us,” he said warmly; “you think as I do.”

Good Heavens, if Frau Meyer had told me the truth, what would happen when Madame Fontaine discovered that her promissory note was in the hands of a stranger — a man who would inexorably present it for payment on the day when it fell due? I tried to persuade myself that Frau Meyer had
not
told me the truth. Perhaps I might have succeeded — but for my remembrance of the disreputable-looking stranger on the door-step, who had been so curious to know if Madame Fontaine intended to leave her lodgings.

CHAPTER XXI

The next day, my calculation of possibilities in the matter of Fritz turned out to be correct.

Returning to Main Street, after a short absence from the house, the door was precipitately opened to me by Minna. Before she could say a word, her face told me the joyful news. Before I could congratulate her, Fritz himself burst headlong into the hall, and made one of his desperate attempts at embracing me. This time I succeeded (being the shorter man of the two) in slipping through his arms in the nick of time.

“Do you want to kiss
me,”
I exclaimed, “when Minna is in the house!”

“I have been kissing Minna,” Fritz answered with perfect gravity, until we are both of us out of breath. “I look upon you as a sort of safety-valve.”

At this, Minna’s charming face became eloquent in another way. I only waited to ask for news of my aunt before I withdrew. Mrs. Wagner was already on the road to Frankfort, following Fritz by easy stages.

“And where is Jack Straw?” I inquired.

“Traveling with her,” said Fritz.

Having received this last extraordinary piece of intelligence, I put off all explanations until a fitter opportunity, and left the lovers together until dinner-time.

It was one of the last fine days of the autumn. The sunshine tempted me to take a turn in Mr. Engelman’s garden.

A shrubbery of evergreens divided the lawn near the house from the flower-beds which occupied the further extremity of the plot of ground. While I was on one side of the shrubbery, I heard the voices of Mr. Keller and Madame Fontaine on the other side. Then, and then only, I remembered that the doctor had suggested a little walking exercise for the invalid, while the sun was at its warmest in the first hours of the afternoon. Madame Fontaine was in attendance, in the absence of Mr. Engelman, engaged in the duties of the office.

I had just turned back again towards the house, thinking it better not to disturb them, when I heard my name on the widow’s lips. Better men than I, under stress of temptation, have been known to commit actions unworthy of them. I was mean enough to listen; and I paid the proverbial penalty for gratifying my curiosity — I heard no good of myself.

“You have honoured me by asking my advice, sir,” I heard Madame Fontaine say. “With regard to young David Glenney, I can speak quite impartially. In a few days more, if I can be of no further use to you, I shall have left the house.”

Mr. Keller interrupted her there.

“Pardon me, Madame Fontaine; I can’t let you talk of leaving us. We are without a housekeeper, as you know. You will confer a favor on me and on Mr. Engelman, if you will kindly undertake the direction of our domestic affairs — for the present, at least. Besides, your charming daughter is the light of our household. What will Fritz say, if you take her away just when he has come home? No! no! you and Minna must stay with us.”

“You are only too good to me, sir! Perhaps I had better ascertain what Mr. Engelman’s wishes are, before we decide?”

Mr. Keller laughed — and, more extraordinary still, Mr. Keller made a little joke.

“My dear madam, if you don’t know what Mr. Engelman’s wishes are likely to be, without asking him, you are the most unobservant lady that ever lived! Speak to him, by all means, if you think it formally necessary — and let us return to the question of taking David Glenney into our office here. A letter which he has lately received from Mrs. Wagner expresses no intention of recalling him to London — and he has managed so cleverly in a business matter which I confided to him, that he would really be an acquisition to us. Besides (until the marriage takes place), he would be a companion for Fritz.”

“That is exactly where I feel a difficulty,” Madame Fontaine replied. “To my mind, sir, Mr. David is not at all a desirable companion for your son. The admirable candor and simplicity of Fritz’s disposition might suffer by association with a person of Mr. David’s very peculiar character.”

“May I ask, Madame Fontaine, in what you think his character peculiar?”

“I will endeavor to express what I feel, sir. You have spoken of his cleverness. I venture to say that he is
too
clever And I have observed that he is — for a young man — far too easily moved to suspect others. Do I make myself understood?”

“Perfectly. Pray go on.”

“I find, Mr. Keller, that there is something of the Jesuit about our young friend. He has a way of refining on trifles, and seeing under the surface, where nothing is to be seen. Don’t attach too much importance to what I say! It is quite likely that I am influenced by the popular prejudice against ‘old heads on young shoulders.’ At the same time, I confess I wouldn’t keep him here, if I were in your place. Shall we move a little further on?”

Madame Fontaine was, I daresay, perfectly right in her estimate of me. Looking back at the pages of this narrative, I discover some places in which I certainly appear to justify her opinion. I even justified it at the time. Before she and Mr. Keller were out of my hearing, I began to see “under the surface,” and “to refine” on what she had said.

Was it Jesuitical to doubt the disinterestedness of her advice? I did doubt it. Was it Jesuitical to suspect that she privately distrusted me, and had reasons of her own for keeping me out of her way, at the safe distance of London? I did suspect it.

And yet she was such a good Christian! And yet she had so nobly and so undeniably saved Mr. Keller’s life! What right had I to impute self-seeking motives to such a woman as this? Mean! mean! there was no excuse for me.

I turned back to the house, with my head feeling very old on my young shoulders.

Madame Fontaine’s manner to me was so charming, when we all met at the dinner-table, that I fell into a condition of remorseful silence. Fortunately, Fritz took most of the talking on himself, and the general attention was diverted from me. His high spirits, his boisterous nonsense, his contempt for all lawful forms and ceremonies which placed impediments in the way of his speedy marriage, were amusingly contrasted by Mr. Engelman’s courteous simplicity in trying to argue the question seriously with his reckless young friend.