'The lawyer declined, Fritz, to comply with her request. He said, 'It would be inexcusable, even in a man, to run such a risk—I don't believe there is another woman in England who would think of such a thing.' Those were his words.'
'Did they have any effect on her?'
'Not the least in the world. She apologized for having wasted his valuable time, and wished him good morning. 'If nobody will help me,' she said, quietly, 'I must help myself.' Then she turned to me. 'You have seen how carefully and delicately poor Jack can work,' she said; 'you have seen him tempted to break out, and yet capable of restraining himself in my presence. And, more than that, on the one occasion when he did lose his self-control, you saw how he recovered himself when he was calmly and kindly reasoned with. Are you content, David, to leave such a man for the rest of his life to the chains and the whip?' What could I say? She was too considerate to press me; she only asked me to think of it. I have been trying to think of it ever since—and the more I try, the more I dread the consequences if that madman is brought into the house.'
Fritz shuddered at the prospect.
'On the day when Jack comes into the house, I shall go out of it,' he said. The social consequences of my aunt's contemplated experiment suddenly struck him while he spoke. 'What will Mrs. Wagner's friends think?' he asked piteously. 'They will refuse to visit her—they will say she's mad herself.'
'Don't let that distress you, gentlemen—I shan't mind what my friends say of me.'
We both started in confusion to our feet. My aunt herself was standing at the open door of the summer-house with a letter in her hand.
'News from Germany, just come for you, Fritz.'
With those words, she handed him the letter, and left us.
We looked at each other thoroughly ashamed of ourselves, if the truth must be told. Fritz cast an uneasy glance at the letter, and recognized the handwriting on the address. 'From my father!' he said. As he opened the envelope a second letter enclosed fell out on the floor. He changed color as he picked it up, and looked at it. The seal was unbroken—the postmark was Wurzburg.
CHAPTER VII
Fritz kept the letter from Wurzburg unopened in his hand.
'It's not from Minna,' he said; 'the handwriting is strange to me. Perhaps my father knows something about it.' He turned to his father's letter; read it; and handed it to me without a word of remark.
Mr. Keller wrote briefly as follows:—
'The enclosed letter has reached me by post, as you perceive, with written instructions to forward it to my son. The laws of honor guide me just as absolutely in my relations with my son as in my relations with any other gentleman. I forward the letter to you exactly as I have received it. But I cannot avoid noticing the postmark of the city in which the Widow Fontaine and her daughter are still living. If either Minna or her mother be the person who writes to you, I must say plainly that I forbid your entering into any correspondence with them. The two families shall never be connected by marriage while I live. Understand, my dear son, that this is said in your own best interests, and said, therefore, from the heart of your father who loves you.'
While I was reading these lines Fritz had opened the letter from Wurzburg. 'It's long enough, at any rate,' he said, turning over the closely-written pages to find the signature at the end.
'Well?' I asked.
'Well,' Fritz repeated, 'it's an anonymous letter. The signature is 'Your Unknown Friend.''
'Perhaps it relates to Miss Minna, or to her mother,' I suggested. Fritz turned back to the first page and looked up at me, red with anger. 'More abominable slanders! More lies about Minna's mother!' he burst out. 'Come here, David. Look at it with me. What do you say? Is it the writing of a woman or a man?'
The writing was so carefully disguised that it was impossible to answer his question. The letter (like the rest of the correspondence connected with this narrative) has been copied in duplicate and placed at my disposal. I reproduce it here for reasons which will presently explain themselves—altering nothing, not even the vulgar familiarity of the address.
'My good fellow, you once did me a kindness a long time since. Never mind what it was or who I am. I mean to do you a kindness in return. Let that be enough.
'You are in love with 'Jezebel's Daughter.' Now, don't be angry! I know you believe Jezebel to be a deeply- injured woman; I know you have been foolish enough to fight duels at Wurzburg in defense of her character.
'It is enough for you that she is a fond mother, and that her innocent daughter loves her dearly. I don't deny that she is a fond mother; but is the maternal instinct enough of itself to answer for a woman? Why, Fritz, a cat is a fond mother; but a cat scratches and swears for all that! And poor simple little Minna, who can see no harm in anybody, who can't discover wickedness when it stares her in the face—is
'Don't tear up my letter in a rage; I am not going to argue the question with you any further. Certain criminal circumstances have come to my knowledge, which point straight to this woman. I shall plainly relate those circumstances, out of my true regard for you, in the fervent hope that I may open your eyes to the truth.
'Let us go back to the death of Doctor-Professor Fontaine, at his apartments in the University of Wurzburg, on the 3rd of September, in the present year 1828.
'The poor man died of typhoid fever, as you know—and died in debt, through no extravagance on his own part, as you also know. He had outlived all his own relatives, and had no pecuniary hopes or expectations from anyone. Under these circumstances, he could only leave the written expression of his last wishes, in place of a will.
'This document committed his widow and child to the care of his widow's relations, in terms of respectful entreaty. Speaking next of himself, he directed that he should be buried with the strictest economy, so that he might cost the University as little as possible. Thirdly, and lastly, he appointed one of his brother professors to act as his sole executor, in disposing of those contents of his laboratory which were his own property at the time of his death.
'The written instructions to his executor are of such serious importance that I feel it my duty to copy them for you, word for word.
'Thus they begin:—
