Jezebel's Daughter

papers in his charge.

He came back again immediately, looking very much alarmed.

'Pray go into the dining-room!' he said to me. 'I am afraid something is seriously wrong with Mr. Engelman.

'Do you mean that he is ill?' I asked.

'I can hardly say. His arms are stretched out on the table, and his face is hidden on them. He paid no attention to me. I am almost afraid he was crying.'

Crying? I had left him in excellent spirits, casting glances of the tenderest admiration at Madame Fontaine. Without waiting to hear more, I ran to the dining-room.

He was alone—in the position described by the clerk—and, poor old man, he was indeed weeping bitterly! I put my hand with all possible gentleness on his shoulder, and said, with the tenderness that I really felt for him: 'Dear Mr. Engelman, what has happened to distress you?'

At the sound of my voice he looked up, and caught me fervently by the hand.

'Stay here with me a little while, David,' he said. 'I have got my death-blow.'

I sat down by him directly. 'Try and tell me what has happened,' I went on. 'I left you here with Madame Fontaine——'

His tears suddenly ceased; his hand closed convulsively on mine. 'Don't speak of her,' he cried, with an outburst of anger. 'You were right about her, David. She is a false woman.' As the words passed his lips, he changed again. His voice faltered; he seemed to be frightened by his own violent language. 'Oh, what am I talking about! what right have I to say that of her! I am a brute—I am reviling the best of women. It was all my fault, David—I have acted like a madman, like a fool. Oh, my boy! my boy!—would you believe it?—I asked her to marry me!'

It is needless to say that I wanted no further explanation. 'Did she encourage you to ask her?' I inquired.

'I thought she did, David—I thought I would be clever and seize the opportunity. She said she wanted to consult me. She said: 'Mr. Keller has asked me to stay here, and keep house for you; I have not given my answer yet, I have waited to know if you approved it.' Upon that, I said the rash words. I asked her to be more than our housekeeper—to be my wife. I am naturally stupid,' said the poor simple gentleman; 'whenever I try to do anything clever I always fail. She was very forbearing with me at first; she said No, but she said it considerately, as if she felt for me. I presumed on her kindness, like a fool; I couldn't help it, David, I was so fond of her. I pressed her to say why she refused me. I was mad enough to ask if there was some other man whom she preferred. Oh, she said some hard things to me in her anger! And, worse still, when I went down on my knees to her, she said, 'Get up, you old fool!'—and laughed—and left me. Take me away somewhere, David; I am too old to get over it, if I stay here. I can never see her or speak to her again. Take me to England with you—and, oh, don't tell Keller!'

He burst into another fit of tears. It was dreadful to see and hear him.

I tried to think of some consoling words. Before I could give expression to my thought, the door of the room was gently opened; and Madame Fontaine herself stood before us. Her eyes looked at Mr. Engelman from under their heavy lids, with a quiet and scornful compassion. The poor wretch was of no further use to her. Quite needless to be on her best behavior with him now!

'There is not the least occasion, sir, to disturb yourself,' she said. 'It is my duty to leave the house—and I will do it.'

Without waiting to be answered, she turned back to the door, and left us.

CHAPTER XXII

'For heaven's sake, sir, allow me to go!'

'On no account, Madame Fontaine. If you won't remain here, in justice to yourself, remain as a favor to me.'

When I opened my bedroom door the next morning, the widow and Mr. Keller were on the landing outside, and those were the words exchanged between them.

Mr. Keller approached, and spoke to me.

'What do you know, David, about the disappearance of Mr. Engelman?'

'Disappearance?' I repeated. 'I was with him yesterday evening—and I bade him good-night in his own room.'

'He must have left the house before the servants were up this morning,' said Mr. Keller. 'Read that.'

He handed me a morsel of paper with writing on it in pencil:—

'Forgive me, dear friend and partner, for leaving you without saying good-bye; also for burdening you with the direction of business, before you are perhaps strong enough to accept the charge. My mind is in such a state of confusion that I should be worse than useless in the office. While I write this, my poor weak head burns as if there was fire in it. I cannot face her, I cannot face you—I must go, before I lose all control over myself. Don't attempt to trace me. If change and absence restore me to myself I will return. If not, a man at my age and in my state of mind is willing to die. Please tell Madame Fontaine that I ask her pardon with all my heart. Good-bye—and God bless and prosper you.'

I was unaffectedly distressed. There was something terrible in this sudden break-up of poor Engelman's harmless life—something cruel and shocking in the passion of love fixing its relentless hold on an innocent old man, fast nearing the end of his days. There are hundreds of examples of this deplorable anomaly in real life; and yet, when we meet with it in our own experience, we are always taken by surprise, and always ready to express doubt or derision when we hear of it in the experience of others.

Madame Fontaine behaved admirably. She sat down on the window-seat at the end of the landing, and wrung her hands with a gesture of despair.

'Oh!' she said, 'if he had asked me for anything else! If I could have made any other sacrifice to him! God knows I never dreamed of it; I never gave him the smallest encouragement. We might have all been so happy together here—and I, who would have gone to the world's end to serve Mr. Keller and Mr. Engelman, I am the unhappy creature who has broken up the household!'