'Mrs. Wagner is a very impetuous person,' he said. 'She doesn't understand a complex nature like Madame Fontaine's.'
'At least I may show my aunt the letter from Bingen, sir?'
'Yes. It can do no harm, if it does no good.'
On my way to my aunt's room, I encountered Minna on the stairs. She was crying. I naturally asked what was the matter.
'Don't stop me!' was the only answer I received.
'But where are you going, Minna?'
'I am going to Fritz, to be comforted.'
'Has anybody behaved harshly to you?'
'Yes, mamma has behaved harshly to me. For the first time in my life,' said the spoilt child, with a strong sense of injury, 'she has locked the door of her room, and refused to let me in.'
'But why?'
'How can I tell? I believe it has something to do with that horrid man I told you of. You sent a letter upstairs this morning. I met Joseph on the landing, and took the letter to her myself. Why shouldn't I look at the postmark? Where was the harm in saying to her, 'A letter, mamma, from Wurzburg'? She looked at me as if I had mortally offended her—and pointed to the door, and locked herself in. I have knocked twice, and asked her to forgive me. Not a word of answer either time! I consider myself insulted. Let me go to Fritz.'
I made no attempt to detain her. She had set those every-ready suspicions of mine at work again.
Was the letter which I had sent upstairs a reply to the letter which Minna had seen her mother writing? Was the widow now informed that the senile old admirer who had advanced the money to pay her creditors had been found dead in his bed? and that her promissory note had passed into the possession of the heir-at-law? If this was the right reading of the riddle, no wonder she had sent her daughter out of the room—no wonder she had locked her door!
My aunt wasted no time in expressions of grief and surprise, when she was informed of Mr. Engelman's state of health. 'Send the widow here directly,' she said. 'If there is anything like a true heart under that splendid silk dress of hers, I shall write and relieve poor Engelman by to-night's post.'
To confide my private surmises, even to my aunt, would have been an act of inexcusable imprudence, to say the least of it. I could only reply that Madame Fontaine was not very well, and was (as I had heard from Minna) shut up in the retirement of her own room.
The resolute little woman got on her feet instantly. 'Show me where she is, David—and leave the rest to me.'
I led her to the door, and was dismissed with these words—'Go and wait in my room till I come back to you.' As I retired, I heard a smart knock, and my aunt's voice announcing herself outside—'Mrs. Wagner, ma'am, with something serious to say to you.' The reply was inaudible. Not so my aunt's rejoinder: 'Oh, very well! Just read that letter, will you? I'll push it under the door, and wait for an answer.' I lingered for a minute longer—and heard the door opened and closed again.
In little more than half an hour, my aunt returned. She looked serious and thoughtful. I at once anticipated that she had failed. Her first words informed me that I was wrong.
'I've done it,' she said. 'I am to write to Engelman to-night; and I have the widow's permission to tell him that she regrets her hasty decision. Her own words, mind, when I asked her how I should put it!'
'So there is a true heart under that splendid silk dress of hers?' I said.
My aunt walked up and down the room, silent and frowning—discontented with me, or discontented with herself; it was impossible to tell which. On a sudden, she sat down by me, and hit me a smart slap on the shoulder.
'David!' she said, 'I have found out something about myself which I never suspected before. If you want to see a cold-blooded wretch, look at me!'
It was so gravely said, and so perfectly absurd, that I burst out laughing. She was far too seriously perplexed about herself to take the smallest notice of my merriment.
'Do you know,' she resumed, 'that I actually hesitate to write to Engelman? David! I ought to be whipped at the cart's tail. I don't believe in Madame Fontaine.'
She little knew how that abrupt confession interested me. 'Tell me why!' I said eagerly.
'That's the disgraceful part of it,' she answered. 'I can't tell you why. Madame Fontaine spoke charmingly—with perfect taste and feeling. And all the time some devilish spirit of distrust kept whispering to me, 'Don't believe her; she has her motive!' Are you sure, David, it is only a little illness that makes her shut herself up in her room, and look so frightfully pale and haggard? Do you know anything about her affairs? Engelman is rich; Engelman has a position. Has she got into some difficulty since she refused him? and could he, by the barest possibility, be of any use in helping her out of it?'
I declare solemnly that the idea suggested by my aunt never occurred to me until she asked those questions. As a rejected suitor, Mr. Engelman could be of no possible use to the widow. But suppose he was her accepted husband? and suppose the note fell due before Minna was married? In that case, Mr. Engelman might unquestionably be of use—he might lend the money.
My aunt's sharp eyes were on me. 'Out with it, David!' she cried. 'You don't believe in her, either—and you know why.'
'I know absolutely nothing,' I rejoined; 'I am guessing in the dark; and the event may prove that I am completely at fault. Don't ask me to degrade Madame Fontaine's character in your estimation, without an atom of proof to justify what I say. I have something to propose which I think will meet the difficulty.'
With a strong exercise of self-restraint, my aunt resigned herself to listen. 'Let's hear your proposal,' she said. 'Have you any Scotch blood in your veins, David? You are wonderfully prudent and cautious for so young a man.'
