sacrifice?" he said. "The pleasure of seeing her nephew married is likely
to be the last pleasure of my sister's life."
"In your place," said Mrs. Wagner, "I should not hesitate for an instant
to grant the fortnight's delay. But the bride and bridegroom must be
consulted, of course."
"And the bride's parents," suggested the discreet physician, "if they are
still living."
"There is only her mother living," said Mr. Keller. "She is too
high-minded a person to raise any objection, I am sure." He paused, and
reflected for awhile. "Fritz counts for nothing," he went on. "I think we
ought to put the question, in the first instance, to the bride?" He rang
the bell, and then took the necklace out of Mrs. Wagner's hands. "I have
a very high opinion of little Minna," he resumed. "We will see what the
child's own kind heart says--undisturbed by the influence of the pearls,
and without any prompting on the part of her mother."
He closed the jewel case, and put it into a cabinet that stood near him.
Joseph was sent upstairs, with the necessary message. "Don't make any
mistake," said his master; "I wish to see Miss Minna, alone."
The physician took a pinch of snuff while they were waiting. "The test is
hardly conclusive," he remarked slily; "women are always capable of
sacrificing themselves. What will the bridegroom say?"
"My good sir," Mr. Keller rejoined a little impatiently, "I have
mentioned already that Fritz counts for nothing."
Minna came in. Her color rose when she found herself unexpectedly in the
presence of a dignified and decorated stranger. The physician tapped his
snuff-box, with the air of a man who thoroughly understood young women.
"Charming indeed!" he said confidentially to Mrs. Wagner; "I am young
enough (at heart, madam) to wish I was Fritz."
Mr. Keller advanced to meet Minna, and took her hand.
"My dear," he said, "what would you think of me, if I requested you to
put off your marriage for two whole weeks--and all on account of an old
woman?"
"I should think you had surely some reason, sir, for asking me to do
that," Minna replied; "and I confess I should be curious to know who the
old woman was."
In the fewest and plainest words, Mr. Keller repeated what the physician
had told him. "Take your own time to think of it," he added; "and consult
your mother first, if you like."
Minna's sweet face looked lovelier than ever, glowing with the heavenly
light of true and generous feeling. "Oh, Mr. Keller!" she exclaimed, "do
you really suppose I am cold-hearted enough to want time to think of it?
I am sure I may speak for my mother, as well as for myself. Fraulein
Keller's time shall be our time. Please tell her so, with my duty--or,
may I be bold enough to say already, with my love?"
Mr. Keller kissed her forehead with a fervor of feeling that was rare
with him. "You are well worthy of my sister's bridal gift," he said--and
took the necklace out of the cabinet, and gave it to her.
For some moments Minna stood looking at the magnificent pearls, in a
state of speechless enchantment. When she did speak, her first delightful
ardor of admiration had cooled under the chilling perception of a want of
proper harmony between her pearls and herself. "They are too grand for
me," she said sadly; "I ought to be a great lady, with a wardrobe full of
magnificent dresses, to wear such pearls as these!" She looked at them
again, with the natural longing of her sex and age. "May I take the
necklace upstairs," she asked, with the most charming inconsistency, "and
see how it looks when I put it on?"
Mr. Keller smiled and waved his hand. "You can do what you like with your
own necklace, my dear," he said. "When I have written a line to my
sister, perhaps I may follow you, and admire my daughter-in-law in all
her grandeur."
The physician looked at his watch. "If you can write your letter in five
minutes," he suggested, "I can take it with me to Munich."
Mrs. Wagner and Minna left the room together. "Come and see how it
looks," said Minna; "I should so like to have your opinion."
"I will follow you directly, my dear. There is something I have forgotten
in the office."
The events of the day had ended in making Jack drowsy; he was half-asleep
on the window-seat. Mrs. Wagner effectually roused him.
"Mr. Keeper of the Keys," she said; "I want my desk opened."
Jack was on his legs in an instant. "Ha, Mistress, it's jolly to hear you
say that--it's like being in London again."
The desk was of the spacious commercial sort, with a heavy mahogany lid.
Everything inside was in the most perfect order. A row of "pigeon-holes"
at the back had their contents specified by printed tickets. "Abstracts
of correspondence, A to Z;" "Terms for commission agency;" "Key of the
iron safe." "Key of the private ledger"--and so on. The ledger--a stout
volume with a brass lock, like a private diary--was placed near the
pigeon-holes. On the top of it rested a smaller book, of the
pocket--size, entitled "Private Accounts." Mrs. Wagner laid both books
open before her, at the pages containing the most recent entries, and
compared them. "I felt sure I had forgotten it!" she said to herself--and
transferred an entry in the ledger to the private account-book. After
replacing the ledger, she locked the desk, and returned the key to Jack.
"Remember," she said, "the rule in London is the rule here. My desk is
never to be opened, except when I ask you to do it. And if you allow the
key to pass out of your own possession, you cease to be Keeper."
"Did I ever do either of those two things in London?" Jack asked.
"Never."
"Then don't be afraid of my doing them here. I say! you haven't put back
the little book." He produced the key again, and put it into the
lock--while Mrs. Wagner was occupied in placing her account-book in her
pocket.
"Its proper place is not in the desk," she explained; "I usually keep it
about me."
Jack's ready suspicion was excited. "Ah," he cried, with an outburst of
indignation, "you won't trust it to me!"
"Take care I don't set a bad-conduct mark against you!" said Mrs. Wagner.
"You foolish fellow, the little book is a copy of what is in the big
book--and I trust you with the big book."
She knew Jack thoroughly well. His irritable dignity was at once appeased
when he heard that the biggest of the duplicate books was in his keeping.
He took the key out of the lock again. At the same moment, Mr. Keller
entered the office. Jack possessed the dog's enviable faculty of
distinguishing correctly between the people who are, and the people who
are not, their true friends. Mr. Keller privately disliked the idea of
having a person about him who had come out of a madhouse. Jack's
instincts warned him to leave a room when Mr. Keller entered it. He left
the office now.
"Is it possible that you trust that crazy creature with the key of your
desk?" said Mr. Keller. "Even your bitterest enemy, Mrs. Wagner, would
not believe you could be guilty of such an act of rashness."
"Pardon me, sir, it is you who are guilty of an act of rashness in
forming your judgment. 'Fancy a woman in her senses trusting her keys to
a man who was once in Bedlam!' Everybody said that of me, when I put Jack
to the proof in my own house."
"Aha! there are other people then who agree with me?" said Mr. Keller.
"There are other people, sir (I say it with all needful respect), who
know no more of the subject than you do. The most certain curative
influence that can be exercised over the poor martyrs of the madhouse, is
to appeal to their self-respect. From first to last, Jack has never been
unworthy of the trust that I have placed in him. Do you think my friends
owned they had been mistaken? No more than you will own it! Make your
mind easy. I will be personally answerable for anything that is lost,
while I am rash enough to trust my crazy creature with my key."
Mr. Keller's opinion was not in the least shaken; he merely checked any
further expression of it, in deference to an angry lady. "I dare say you
know best," he remarked politely. "Let me mention the little matter that
has brought me here. David Glenney is, no doubt, closely occupied in
London. He ought to know at once that the wedding-day is deferred. Will
you write to him, or shall I?"
Mrs. Wagner began to recover her temper.
"I will write with pleasure, Mr. Keller. We have half an hour yet before
post-time. I have promised Minna to see how the wonderful necklace looks
on her. Will you excuse me for a few minutes? Or will you go upstairs
with me?--I think you said something about it in the drawing-room."
"Certainly," said Mr. Keller, "if the ladies will let me in."
They ascended the stairs together. On the landing outside the
drawing-room, they encountered Fritz and Minna--one out of temper, and
the other in tears.
"What's wrong now?" Mr. Keller asked sharply. "Fritz! what does that
sulky face mean?"
"I consider myself very badly used," Fritz answered. "I say there's a
great want of proper consideration for Me, in putting off our marriage.
And Madame Fontaine agrees with me."
"Madame Fontaine?" He looked at Minna, as he repeated the name. "Is this
really true?"
Minna trembled at the bare recollection of what had passed. "Oh, don't
ask me!" she pleaded piteously; "I can't tell what has come to my
mother--she is so changed, she frightens me. And as for Fritz," she said,
rousing herself, "if he is to be a selfish tyrant, I can tell him this--I
won't marry him at all!"
Mr. Keller turned to Fritz, and pointed contemptuously down the stairs.
"Leave us!" he said. Fritz opened his lips to protest. Mr. Keller
interposed, with a protest of his own. "One of these days," he went on,
"you may possibly have a son. You will not find his society agreeable to
you, when he happens to have made a fool of himself." He pointed down the
stairs for the second time. Fritz retired, frowning portentously. His
father addressed Minna with marked gentleness of manner. "Rest and
recover yourself, my child. I will see your mother, and set things
right."
"Don't go away by yourself, my dear," Mrs. Wagner added kindly; "come
with me to my room."
Mr. Keller entered the drawing-room, and sent Joseph with another
message. "Go up to Madame Fontaine, and say I wish to see her here
immediately."
CHAPTER VIII
The widow presented herself, with a dogged resignation singularly unlike
her customary manner. Her eyes had a set look of hardness; her lips were
fast closed; her usually colorless complexion had faded to a strange
grayish pallor. If her dead husband could have risen from the grave, and
warned Mr. Keller, he would have said, "Once or twice in my life, I have
seen her like that--mind what you are about!"
She puzzled Mr. Keller. He tried to gain time--he bowed and pointed to a
chair. Madame Fontaine took the chair in silence. Her hard eyes looked
straight at the master of the house, overhung more heavily than usual by
their drooping lids. Her thin lips never opened. The whole expression of
the woman said plainly, "You speak first!"
Mr. Keller spoke. His kindly instinct warned him not to refer to Minna,
in alluding to the persons from whom he had derived his information. "I
hear from my son," he said, "that you do not approve of our putting off
the wedding-day, though it is only for a fortnight. Are you aware of the
circumstances?"
"I am aware of the circumstances."
"Your daughter informed you of my sister's illness, I suppose?"
At that first reference to Minna, some inner agitation faintly stirred
the still surface of Madame Fontaine's face.
"Yes," she said. "My thoughtless daughter informed me."
The epithet applied to Minna, aggravated by the deliberate emphasis laid
on it, jarred on Mr. Keller's sense of justice. "It appears to me," he
said, "that your daughter acted in this matter, not only with the truest
kindness, but with the utmost good sense. Mrs. Wagner and my sister's
physician were both present at the time, and both agreed with me in
admiring her conduct. What has she done to deserve that you should call
her thoughtless?"
"She ought to have remembered her duty to her mother. She ought to have
consulted me, before she presumed to decide for herself."
"In that case, Madame Fontaine, would you have objected to change the day
of the marriage?"
"I am well aware, sir, that your sister has honored my daughter by making
her a magnificent present----"
Mr. Keller's face began to harden. "May I beg you to be so good as answer
my question plainly?" he said, in tones which were peremptory for the
first time. "Would you have objected to grant the fortnight's delay?"
She answered him, on the bare chance that a strong expression of her
opinion, as the bride's mother, might, even now, induce him to revert to
the date originally chosen for the wedding. "I should certainly have
objected," she said firmly.
"What difference could it possibly make to _you?"_ There was suspicion in
his manner, as well as surprise, when he put that question. "For what
reason would you have objected?"
"Is my objection, as Minna's mother, not worthy of some consideration,
sir, without any needless inquiry into motives?"
"Your daughter's objection--as the bride--would have been a final
objection, to my mind," Mr. Keller answered. "But _your_ objection is
simply unaccountable; and I press you for your motives, having this good
reason for doing so on my side. If I am to disappoint my sister--cruelly
to disappoint her--it must be for some better cause than a mere caprice."
It was strongly put, and not easily answered. Madame Fontaine made a last
effort--she invented the likeliest motives she could think of. "I object,
sir, in the first place, to putting off the most important event in my
daughter's life, and in my life, as if it was some trifling engagement.
Besides, how do I know that some other unlucky circumstance may not cause
more delays; and perhaps prevent the marriage from taking place at all?"
Mr. Keller rose from his chair. Whatever her true motives might be, it
was now perfectly plain that she was concealing them from him. "If you
have any more serious reasons to give me than these," he said quietly and
coldly, "let me hear them between this and post-time tomorrow. In the
meanwhile, I need not detain you any longer."
Madame Fontaine rose also--but she was not quite defeated yet.
"As things are, then," she resumed, "I am to understand, sir, that the
marriage is put off to the thirteenth of January next?"
"Yes, with your daughter's consent."
"Suppose my daughter changes her mind, in the interval?"
"Under your influence?"
"Mr. Keller! you insult me."
"I should insult your daughter, Madame Fontaine--after what she said in
this room before me and before other witnesses--if I supposed her to be
capable of changing her mind, except under your influence.
"Good evening, sir."
"Good evening, madam."
She went back to her room.
The vacant spaces on the walls were prettily filled up with prints and
water-color drawings. Among these last was a little portrait of Mr.
Keller, in a glazed frame. She approached it--looked at it--and, suddenly
tearing it from the wall, threw it on the floor. It happened to fall with
the glass uppermost. She stamped on it, in a perfect frenzy of rage; not
only crushing the glass, but even breaking the frame, and completely
destroying the portrait as a work of art. "There! that has done me good,"
she said to herself--and kicked the fragments into a corner of the room.
She was now able to take a chair at the fireside, and shape out for
herself the course which it was safest to follow.
Minna was first in her thoughts. She could bend the girl to her will, and
send her to Mr. Keller. But he would certainly ask, under what influence
she was acting, in terms which would place the alternative between a
downright falsehood, or a truthful answer. Minna was truth itself; in her
youngest days, she had been one of those rare children who never take
their easy refuge in a lie. What influence would be most likely to
persuade her to deceive Fritz's father? The widow gave up the idea, in
the moment when it occurred to her. Once again, "Jezebel's Daughter"
unconsciously touched Jezebel's heart with the light of her purity and
her goodness. The mother shrank from deliberately degrading the nature of
her own child.
The horrid question of the money followed. On the thirty-first of the
month, the promissory note would be presented for payment. Where was the
money to be found?
Some little time since, having the prospect of Minna's marriage on the
thirtieth of December before her, she had boldly resolved on referring
the holder of the note to Mr. Keller. Did it matter to her what the
sordid old merchant said or thought, after Minna had become his son's
wife? She would coolly say to him, "The general body of the creditors
harassed me. I preferred having one creditor to deal with, who had no
objection to grant me time. His debt has fallen due; and I have no money
to pay it. Choose between paying it yourself, and the disgrace of letting
your son's mother-in-law be publicly arrested in Frankfort for debt."
So she might have spoken, if her daughter had been a member of Mr.
Keller's family. With floods of tears, with eloquent protestations, with
threats even of self-destruction, could she venture on making the
confession now?
She remembered how solemnly she had assured Mr. Keller that her debts
were really and truly paid. She remembered the inhuman scorn with which
he had spoken of persons who failed to meet their pecuniary engagements
honestly. Even if he forgave her for deceiving him--which was in the last
degree improbable--he was the sort of man who would suspect her of other
deceptions. He would inquire if she had been quite disinterested in
attending at his bedside, and saving his life. He might take counsel
privately with his only surviving partner, Mrs. Wagner. Mrs. Wagner might
recall the interview in the drawing-room, and the conversation about
Jack; and might see her way to consulting Jack's recollections of his
illness at Wurzburg. The risk to herself of encountering these dangers
was trifling. But the risk to Minna involved nothing less than the
breaking off of the marriage. She decided on keeping up appearances, at
any sacrifice, until the marriage released her from the necessities of
disguise.
So it came back again to the question of how the money was to be found.
Had she any reasonable hope of success, if she asked for a few days'
leave of absence, and went to Wurzburg? Would the holder of the bill
allow her to renew it for a fortnight?
She got up, and consulted her glass--and turned away from it again, with
a sigh. "If I was only ten years younger!" she thought.
The letter which she received from Wurzburg had informed her that the
present holder of the bill was "a middle-aged man." If he had been very
young, or very old, she would have trusted in the autumn of her beauty,
backed by her ready wit. But experience had taught her that the
fascinations of a middle-aged woman are, in the vast majority of cases,
fascinations thrown away on a middle-aged man. Even if she could hope to
be one of the exceptions that prove the rule, the middle-aged man was an
especially inaccessible person, in this case. He had lost money by her
already--money either paid, or owing, to the spy whom he had set to watch
her. Was this the sort of man who would postpone the payment of his just
dues?
She opened one of the drawers in the toilette table, and took out the
pearl necklace. "I thought it would come to this," she said quietly.
"Instead of paying the promissory note, Mr. Keller will have to take the
necklace out of pledge."
The early evening darkness of winter had set in. She dressed herself for
going out, and left her room, with the necklace in its case, concealed
under her shawl.
Poor puzzled Minna was waiting timidly to speak to her in the corridor.
"Oh mamma, do forgive me! I meant it for the best."
The widow put one arm (the other was not at liberty) round her daughter's
waist. "You foolish child," she said, "will you never understand that
your poor mother is getting old and irritable? I may think you have made
a great mistake, in sacrificing yourself to the infirmities of an
asthmatic stranger at Munich; but as to being ever really angry with
you----! Kiss me, my love; I never was fonder of you than I am now. Lift
my veil. Oh, my darling, I don't like giving you to anybody, even to
Fritz."
Minna changed the subject--a sure sign that she and Fritz were friends
again. "How thick and heavy your veil is!" she said.
"It is cold out of doors, my child, to-night."
"But why are you going out?"
"I don't feel very well, Minna. A brisk walk in the frosty air will do me
good."
"Mamma, do let me go with you!"
"No, my dear. You are not a hard old woman like me--and you shall not run
the risk of catching cold. Go into my room, and keep the fire up. I shall
be back in half an hour.
"Where is my necklace, mamma?"
"My dear, the bride's mother keeps the bride's necklace--and, when we do
try it on, we will see how it looks by daylight."
In a minute more, Madame Fontaine was out in the street, on her way to
the nearest jeweler.
CHAPTER IX
The widow stopped at a jeweler's window in the famous street called the
Zeil. The only person in the shop was a simple-looking old man, sitting
behind the counter, reading a newspaper.
She went in. "I have something to show you, sir," she said, in her
softest and sweetest tones. The simple old man first looked at her thick
veil, and then at the necklace. He lifted his hands in amazement and
admiration. "May I examine these glorious pearls?" he asked--and looked
at them through a magnifying glass, and weighed them in his hand. "I
wonder you are not afraid to walk out alone in the dark, with such a
necklace as this," he said. "May I send to my foreman, and let him see
it?"
Madame Fontaine granted his request. He rang the bell which communicated
with the work-rooms. Being now satisfied that she was speaking to the
proprietor of the shop, she risked her first inquiry.
"Have you any necklace of imitation pearls which resembles my necklace?"
she asked.
The old gentleman started, and looked harder than ever at the
impenetrable veil. "Good heavens--no!" he exclaimed. "There is no such
thing in all Frankfort.
"Could an imitation be made, sir?"
The foreman entered the shop--a sullen, self-concentrated man. "Fit for a
queen," he remarked, with calm appreciation of the splendid pearls. His
master repeated to him Madame Fontaine's last question. "They might do it
in Paris," he answered briefly. "What time could you give them, madam?"
"I should want the imitation sent here before the thirteenth of next
month."
The master, humanely pitying the lady's ignorance, smiled and said
nothing. The foreman's decision was rough and ready. "Nothing like time
enough; quite out of the question."
Madame Fontaine had no choice but to resign herself to circumstances. She
had entered the shop with the idea of exhibiting the false necklace on
the wedding-day, whilst the genuine pearls were pledged for the money of
which she stood in need. With the necklace in pawn, and with no
substitute to present in its place, what would Minna say, what would Mr.
Keller think? It was useless to pursue those questions--some plausible
excuse must be found. No matter what suspicions might be excited, the
marriage would still take place. The necklace was no essential part of
the ceremony which made Fritz and Minna man and wife--and the money must
be had.
"I suppose, sir, you grant loans on valuable security--such as this
necklace?" she said.
"Certainly, madam."
"Provided you have the lady's name and address," the disagreeable foreman
suggested, turning to his master.
The old man cordially agreed. "Quite true! quite true! And a reference
besides--some substantial person, madam, well known in this city. The
responsibility is serious with such pearls as these."
"Is the reference absolutely necessary?" Madame Fontaine asked.
The foreman privately touched his master behind the counter.
Understanding the signal, the simple old gentleman closed the jewel-case,
and handed it back. "Absolutely necessary," he answered.
Madame Fontaine went out again into the street. "A substantial reference"
meant a person of some wealth and position in Frankfort--a person like
Mr. Keller, for example. Where was she to find such a reference? Her
relatives in the city had deliberately turned their backs on her. Out of
Mr. Keller's house, they were literally the only "substantial" people
whom she knew. The one chance left seemed to be to try a pawnbroker.
At this second attempt, she was encountered by a smart young man. The
moment _he_ saw the necklace, he uttered a devout ejaculation of surprise
and blew a whistle. The pawnbroker himself appeared--looked at the
pearls--looked at the veiled lady--and answered as the jeweler had
answered, but less civilly. "I'm not going to get myself into a scrape,"
said the pawnbroker; "I must have a good reference."
Madame Fontaine was not a woman easily discouraged. She turned her steps
towards the noble medieval street called the Judengasse--then thickly
inhabited; now a spectacle of decrepit architectural old age, to be soon
succeeded by a new street.
By twos and threes at a time, the Jews in this quaint quarter of the town
clamorously offered their services to the lady who had come among them.
When the individual Israelite to whom she applied saw the pearls, he
appeared to take leave of his senses. He screamed; he clapped his hands;
he called upon his wife, his children, his sisters, his lodgers, to come
and feast their eyes on such a necklace as had never been seen since
Solomon received the Queen of Sheba.
The first excitement having worn itself out, a perfect volley of
questions followed. What was the lady's name? Where did she live? How had
she got the necklace? Had it been given to her? and, if so, who had given
it? Where had it been made? Why had she brought it to the Judengasse? Did
she want to sell it? or to borrow money on it? Aha! To borrow money on
it. Very good, very good indeed; but--and then the detestable invitation
to produce the reference made itself heard once more.
Madame Fontaine's answer was well conceived. "I will pay you good
interest, in place of a reference," she said. Upon this, the Jewish
excitability, vibrating between the desire of gain and the terror of
consequences, assumed a new form. Some of them groaned; some of them
twisted their fingers frantically in their hair; some of them called on
the Deity worshipped by their fathers to bear witness how they had
suffered, by dispensing with references in other cases of precious
deposits; one supremely aged and dirty Jew actually suggested placing an
embargo on the lady and her necklace, and sending information to the city
authorities at the Town Hall. In the case of a timid woman, this sage's
advice might actually have been followed. Madame Fontaine preserved her
presence of mind, and left the Judengasse as freely as she had entered
it. "I can borrow the money elsewhere," she said haughtily at parting.
"Yes," cried a chorus of voices, answering, "you can borrow of a receiver
of stolen goods."
It was only too true! The extraordinary value of the pearls demanded, on
that account, extraordinary precautions on the part of moneylenders of
every degree. Madame Fontaine put back the necklace in the drawer of her
toilette-table. The very splendor of Minna's bridal gift made it useless
as a means of privately raising money among strangers.
And yet, the money must be found--at any risk, under any circumstances,
no matter how degrading or how dangerous they might be.
With that desperate resolution, she went to her bed. Hour after hour she
heard the clock strike. The faint cold light of the new day found her
still waking and thinking, and still unprepared with a safe plan for
meeting the demand on her, when the note became due. As to resources of
her own, the value of the few jewels and dresses that she possessed did
not represent half the amount of her debt.
It was a busy day at the office. The work went on until far into the
evening.
Even when the household assembled at the supper-table, there was an
interruption. A messenger called with a pressing letter, which made it
immediately necessary to refer to the past correspondence of the firm.
Mr. Keller rose from the table. "The Abstracts will rake up less time to
examine," he said to Mrs. Wagner; "you have them in your desk, I think?"
She at once turned to Jack, and ordered him to produce the key. He took
it from his bag, under the watchful eyes of Madame Fontaine, observing
him from the opposite side of the table. "I should have preferred opening
the desk myself," Jack remarked when Mr. Keller had left the room; "but I
suppose I must give way to the master. Besides, he hates me."
The widow was quite startled by this strong assertion. "How can you say
so?" she exclaimed. "We all like you, Jack. Come and have a little wine,
out of my glass."
Jack refused this proposal. "I don't want wine," he said; "I am sleepy
and cold--I want to go to bed."
Madame Fontaine was too hospitably inclined to take No for an answer.
"Only a little drop," she pleaded. "You look so cold."
"Surely you forget what I told you?" Mrs. Wagner interposed. "Wine first
excites, and then stupefies him. The last time I tried it, he was as dull
and heavy as if I had given him laudanum. I thought I mentioned it to
you." She turned to Jack. "You look sadly tired, my poor little man. Go
to bed at once."
"Without the key?" cried Jack indignantly. "I hope I know my duty better
than that."
Mr. Keller returned, perfectly satisfied with the result of his
investigation. "I knew it!" he said. "The mistake is on the side of our
clients; I have sent them the proof of it."
He handed back the key to Mrs. Wagner. She at once transferred it to
Jack. Mr. Keller shook his head in obstinate disapproval. "Would you run
such a risk as that?" he said to Madame Fontaine, speaking in French. "I
should be afraid," she replied in the same language. Jack secured the key
in his bag, kissed his mistress's hand, and approached the door on his
way to bed. "Won't you wish me good-night?" said the amiable widow. "I
didn't know whether German or English would do for you," Jack answered;
"and I can't speak your unknown tongue."
He made one of his fantastic bows, and left the room. "Does he understand
French?" Madame Fontaine asked. "No," said Mrs. Wagner; "he only
understood that you and Mr. Keller had something to conceal from him."
In due course of time the little party at the supper-table rose, and
retired to their rooms. The first part of the night passed as tranquilly
as usual. But, between one and two in the morning, Mrs. Wagner was
alarmed by a violent beating against her door, and a shrill screaming in
Jack's voice. "Let me in! I want a light--I've lost the keys!"
She called out to him to be quiet, while she put on her dressing-gown,
and struck a light. They were fortunately on the side of the house
occupied by the offices, the other inhabited bedchambers being far enough
off to be approached by a different staircase. Still, in the silence of
the night, Jack's reiterated cries of terror and beatings at the door
might possibly reach the ears of a light sleeper. She pulled him into the
room and closed the door again, with an impetuosity that utterly
confounded him. "Sit down there, and compose yourself!" she said sternly.
"I won't give you the light until you are perfectly quiet. You disgrace
_me_ if you disturb the house."
Between cold and terror, Jack shuddered from head to foot. "May I
whisper?" he asked, with a look of piteous submission.
Mrs. Wagner pointed to the last living embers in the fireplace. She knew
by experience the tranquilizing influence of giving him something to do.
"Rake the fire together," she said; "and warm yourself first."
He obeyed, and then laid himself down in his dog-like way on the rug. A
quarter of an hour, at least, passed before his mistress considered him
to be in a fit state to tell his story. There was little or nothing to
relate. He had put his bag under his pillow as usual; and (after a long
sleep) he had woke with a horrid fear that something had happened to the
keys. He had felt in vain for them under the pillow, and all over the
bed, and all over the floor. "After that," he said, "the horrors got hold
of me; and I am afraid I went actually mad, for a little while. I'm all
right now, if you please. See! I'm as quiet as a bird with its head under
its wing."
Mrs. Wagner took the light, and led the way to his little room, close by
her own bedchamber. She lifted the pillow--and there lay the leather bag,
exactly where he had placed it when he went to bed.
Jack's face, when this discovery revealed itself, would have pleaded for
mercy with a far less generous woman than Mrs. Wagner. She took his hand.
"Get into bed again," she said kindly; "and the next time you dream, try
not to make a noise about it."
No! Jack refused to get into bed again, until he had been heard in his
own defense. He dropped on his knees, and held up his clasped hands, as
if he was praying.
"When you first taught me to say my prayers," he answered, "you said God
would hear me. As God hears me now Mistress, I was wide awake when I put
my hand under the pillow--and the bag was not there. Do you believe me?"
Mrs. Wagner was strongly impressed by the simple fervor of this
declaration. It was no mere pretense, when she answered that she did
believe him. At her suggestion, the bag was unstrapped and examined. Not
only the unimportant keys (with another one added to their number) but
the smaller key which opened her desk were found safe inside. "We will
talk about it to-morrow," she said. Having wished him good-night, she
paused in the act of opening the door, and looked at the lock. There was
no key in it, but there was another protection in the shape of a bolt
underneath. "Did you bolt your door when you went to bed?" she asked.
"No."
The obvious suspicion, suggested by this negative answer, crossed her
mind.
"What has become of the key of your door?" she inquired next.
Jack hung his head. "I put it along with the other keys," he confessed,
"to make the bag look bigger."
Alone again in her own room, Mrs. Wagner stood by the reanimated fire,
thinking.
While Jack was asleep, any person, with a soft step and a delicate hand,
might have approached his bedside, when the house was quiet for the
night, and have taken his bag. And, again, any person within hearing of
the alarm that he had raised, some hours afterwards, might have put the
bag back, while he was recovering himself in Mrs. Wagner's room. Who
could have been near enough to hear the alarm? Somebody in the empty
bedrooms above? Or somebody in the solitary offices below? If a theft had
really been committed, the one likely object of it would be the key of
the desk. This pointed to the probability that the alarm had reached the
ears of the thief in the offices. Was there any person in the house, from
the honest servants upwards, whom it would be reasonably possible to
suspect of theft? Mrs. Wagner returned to her bed. She was not a woman to
be daunted by trifles--but on this occasion her courage failed her when
she was confronted by her own question.
CHAPTER X
The office hours, in the winter-time, began at nine o'clock. From the
head-clerk to the messenger, not one of the persons employed slept in the
house: it was Mr. Keller's wish that they should all be absolutely free
to do what they liked with their leisure time in the evening: "I know
that I can trust them, from the oldest to the youngest man in my
service," he used to say; "and I like to show it."
Under these circumstances, Mrs. Wagner had only to rise earlier than
usual, to be sure of having the whole range of the offices entirely to
herself. At eight o'clock, with Jack in attendance, she was seated at her
desk, carefully examining the different objects that it contained.
Nothing was missing; nothing had been moved out of its customary place.
No money was kept in the desk. But her valuable watch, which had stopped
on the previous day, had been put there, to remind her that it must be
sent to be cleaned. The watch, like everything else, was found in its
place. If some person had really opened her desk in the night, no common
thief had been concerned, and no common object had been in view.
She took the key of the iron safe from its pigeon-hole, and opened the
door. Her knowledge of the contents of this repository was far from being
accurate. The partners each possessed a key, but Mr. Keller had many more
occasions than Mrs. Wagner for visiting the safe. And to make a
trustworthy examination more difficult still, the mist of the early
morning was fast turning into a dense white fog.
Of one thing, however, Mrs. Wagner was well aware--a certain sum of
money, in notes and securities, was always kept in this safe as a reserve
fund. She took the tin box in which the paper money was placed close to
the light, and counted its contents. Then, replacing it in the safe, she
opened the private ledger next, to compare the result of her counting
with the entry relating to the Fund.
Being unwilling to cause surprise, perhaps to excite suspicion, by
calling for a candle before the office hours had begun, she carried the
ledger also to the window. There was just light enough to see the sum
total in figures. To her infinite relief, it exactly corresponded with
the result of her counting. She secured everything again in its proper
place; and, after finally locking the desk, handed the key to Jack. He
shook his head, and refused to take it. More extraordinary still, he
placed his bag, with all the other keys in it, on the desk, and said,
"Please keep it for me; I'm afraid to keep it myself."
Mrs. Wagner looked at him with a first feeling of alarm, which changed
instantly to compassion. The tears were in his eyes; his sensitive vanity
was cruelly wounded. "My poor boy," she said gently, "what is it that
troubles you?"
The tears rolled down Jack's face. "I'm a wretched creature," he said;
"I'm not fit to keep the keys, after letting a thief steal them last
night. Take them back, Mistress--I'm quite broken-hearted. Please try me
again, in London."
"A thief?" Mrs. Wagner repeated. "Haven't you seen me examine everything?
And mind, if there _had_ been any dishonest person about the house last
night, the key of my desk is the only key that a thief would have thought
worth stealing. I happen to be sure of that. Come! come! don't be
down-hearted. You know I never deceive you--and I say you are quite wrong
in suspecting that your bag was stolen last night."
Jack solemnly lifted his hand, as his custom was in the great emergencies
of his life. "And _I_ say," he reiterated, "there is a thief in the
house. And you will find it out before long. When we are back in London
again, I will be Keeper of the Keys. Never, never, never more, here!"
It was useless to contend with him; the one wise course was to wait until
his humor changed. Mrs. Wagner locked up his bag, and put the key of the
desk back in her pocket. She was not very willing to own it even to
herself--Jack's intense earnestness had a little shaken her.
After breakfast that morning, Minna lingered at the table, instead of
following her mother upstairs as usual. When Mr. Keller also had left the
room, she addressed a little request of her own to Mrs. Wagner.
"I have got a very difficult letter to write," she said, "and Fritz
thought you might be kind enough to help me."
"With the greatest pleasure, my dear. Does your mother know of this
letter?"
"Yes; it was mamma who said I ought to write it. But she is going out
this morning; and, when I asked for a word of advice, she shook her head.
'They will think it comes from me,' she said, 'and the whole effect of it
will be spoilt.' It's a letter, Mrs. Wagner, announcing my marriage to
mamma's relations here, who have behaved so badly to her--and she says
they may do something for me, if I write to them as if I had done it all
out of my own head. I don't know whether I make myself understood?"
"Perfectly, Minna. Come to my writing-room, and we will see what we can
do together."
Mrs. Wagner led the way out. As she opened the door, Madame Fontaine
passed her in the hall, in walking costume, with a small paper-packet in
her hand.
"There is a pen, Minna. Sit down by me, and write what I tell you."
The ink-bottle had been replenished by the person charged with that duty;
and he had filled it a little too full. In a hurry to write the first
words dictated, Minna dipped her pen too deeply in the bottle. On
withdrawing it she not only blotted the paper but scattered some of the
superfluous ink over the sleeve of Mrs. Wagner's dress. "Oh, how awkward
I am!" she exclaimed. "Excuse me for one minute. Mamma has got something
in her dressing-case which will take out the marks directly."
She ran upstairs, and returned with the powder which her mother had used,
in erasing the first sentences on the label attached to the blue-glass
bottle. Mrs. Wagner looked at the printed instructions on the little
paper box, when the stains had been removed from her dress, with some
curiosity. "Macula Exstinctor," she read, "or Destroyer of Stains.
Partially dissolve the powder in a teaspoonful of water; rub it well over
the place, and the stain will disappear, without taking out the color of
the dress. This extraordinary specific may also be used for erasing
written characters without in any way injuring the paper, otherwise than
by leaving a slight shine on the surface."
"Is this to be got in Frankfort?" asked Mrs. Wagner. "I only know
lemon-juice as a remedy against ink-marks, when I get them on my dress or
my fingers."
"Keep it, dear Mrs. Wagner. I can easily buy another box for mamma where
we got this one, at a chemist's in the Zeil. See how easily I can take
off the blot that I dropped on the paper! Unless you look very close, you
can hardly see the shine--and the ink has completely disappeared."
"Thank you, my dear. But your mother might meet with some little
accident, and might want your wonderful powder when I am out of the way.
Take it back when we have done our letter. And we will go to the chemist
together and buy another box in a day or two."
On the thirtieth of December, after dinner, Mr. Keller proposed a
toast--"Success to the adjourned wedding-day!" There was a general effort
to be cheerful, which was not rewarded by success. Nobody knew why; but
the fact remained that nobody was really merry.
On the thirty-first, there was more hard work at the office. The last day
of the old year was the day on which the balance was struck.
Towards noon, Mr. Keller appeared in Mrs. Wagner's office, and opened the
safe.
"We must see about the Reserve Fund," he said; "I will count the money,
if you will open the ledger and see that the entry is right. I don't know
what you think, but my idea is that we keep too much money lying idle in
these prosperous times. What do you say to using half of the customary
fund for investment? By the by, our day for dividing the profits is not
your day in London. When my father founded this business, the sixth of
January was the chosen date--being one way, among others, of celebrating
his birthday. We have kept to the old custom, out of regard for his
memory; and your worthy husband entirely approved of our conduct. I am
sure you agree with him?"
"With all my heart," said Mrs. Wagner. "Whatever my good husband thought,
I think."
Mr. Keller proceeded to count the Fund. "Fifteen thousand florins," he
announced. "I thought it had been more than that. If poor dear Engelman
had been here--Never mind! What does the ledger say?"
"Fifteen thousand florins," Mrs. Wagner answered.
"Ah, very well, my memory must have deceived me. This used to be
Engelman's business; and you are as careful as he was--I can say no
more."
Mr. Keller replaced the money in the safe, and hastened back to his own
office.
Mrs. Wagner raised one side of the ledger off the desk to close the
book--stopped to think--and laid it back again.
The extraordinary accuracy of Mr. Keller's memory was proverbial in the
office. Remembering the compliment which he had paid to her sense of
responsibility as Mr. Engelman's successor, Mrs. Wagner was not quite
satisfied to take it for granted that he had made a mistake--even on the
plain evidence of the ledger. A reference to the duplicate entry, in her
private account-book, would at once remove even the shadow of a doubt.
The last day of the old year was bright and frosty; the clear midday
light fell on the open page before her. She looked again at the entry,
thus recorded in figures--"15,000 florins"--and observed a trifling
circumstance which had previously escaped her.
The strokes which represented the figures "15" were unquestionably a
little, a very little, thicker than the strokes which represented the
three zeros or "noughts" that followed. Had a hair got into the pen of
the head-clerk, who had made the entry? or was there some trifling defect
in the paper, at that particular part of the page?
She once more raised one side of the ledger so that the light fell at an
angle on the writing. There was a difference between that part of the
paper on which the figures "15" were written, and the rest of the
page--and the difference consisted in a slight shine on the surface.
The side of the ledger dropped from her hand on the desk. She left the
office, and ran upstairs to her own room. Her private account-book had
not been wanted lately--it was locked up in her dressing-case. She took
it out, and referred to it. There was the entry as she had copied it, and
compared it with the ledger--"20,000 florins."
"Madame Fontaine!" she said to herself in a whisper.
CHAPTER XI
The New Year had come.
On the morning of the second of January, Mrs. Wagner (on her way to the
office at the customary hour) was stopped at the lower flight of stairs
by Madame Fontaine--evidently waiting with a purpose.
"Pardon me," said the widow, "I must speak to you."
"These are business hours, madam; I have no time to spare."
Without paying the slightest heed to this reply--impenetrable, in the
petrifying despair that possessed her, to all that looks, tones, and
words could say--Madame Fontaine stood her ground, and obstinately
repeated, "I must speak to you."
Mrs. Wagner once more refused. "All that need be said between us has been
said," she answered. "Have you replaced the money?"
"That is what I want to speak about?"
"Have you replaced the money?"
"Don't drive me mad, Mrs. Wagner! As you hope for mercy yourself, at the
hour of your death, show mercy to the miserable woman who implores you to
listen to her! Return with me as far as the drawing-room. At this time of
day, nobody will disturb us there. Give me five minutes!"
Mrs. Wagner looked at her watch.
"I will give you five minutes. And mind, I mean five minutes. Even in
trifles, I speak the truth."
They returned up the stairs, Mrs. Wagner leading the way.
There were two doors of entrance to the drawing-room--one, which opened
from the landing, and a smaller door, situated at the farther end of the
corridor. This second entrance communicated with a sort of alcove, in
which a piano was placed, and which was only separated by curtains from
the spacious room beyond. Mrs. Wagner entered by the main door, and
paused, standing near the fire-place. Madame Fontaine, following her,
turned aside to the curtains, and looked through. Having assured herself
that no person was in the recess, she approached the fire-place, and said
her first words.
"You told me just now, madam, that _you_ spoke the truth. Does that imply
a doubt of the voluntary confession----?"
"You made no voluntary confession," Mrs. Wagner interposed. "I had
positive proof of the theft that you have committed, when I entered your
room. I showed you my private account-book, and when you attempted to
defend yourself, I pointed to the means of falsifying the figures in the
ledger which lay before me in your own dressing-case. What do you mean by
talking of a voluntary confession, after that?"
"You mistake me, madam. I was speaking of the confession of my
motives--the motives which, in my dreadful position, forced me to take
the money, or to sacrifice the future of my daughter's life. I declare
that I have concealed nothing from you. As you are a Christian woman,
don't be hard on me!"
Mrs. Wagner drew back, and eyed her with an expression of contemptuous
surprise.
"Hard on you?" she repeated. "Do you know what you are saying? Have you
forgotten already how I have consented to degrade myself? Must I once
more remind you of _my_ position? I am bound to tell Mr. Keller that his
money and mine has been stolen; I am bound to tell him that he has taken
into his house, and has respected and trusted, a thief. There is my plain
duty--and I have consented to trifle with it. Are you lost to all sense
of decency? Have you no idea of the shame that an honest woman must feel,
when she knows that her unworthy silence makes her--for the time at
least--the accomplice of your crime? Do you think it was for your
sake--not to be hard on You--that I have consented to this intolerable
sacrifice? In the instant when I discovered you I would have sent for Mr.
Keller, but for the sweet girl whose misfortune it is to be your child.
Once for all, have you anything to say which it is absolutely necessary
that I should hear? Have you, or have you not, complied with the
conditions on which I consented--God help me!--to be what I am?"
Her voice faltered. She turned away proudly to compose herself. The look
that flashed out at her from the widow's eyes, the suppressed fury
struggling to force its way in words through the widow's lips, escaped
her notice. It was the first, and last, warning of what was to come--and
she missed it.
"I wished to speak to you of your conditions," Madame Fontaine resumed,
after a pause. "Your conditions are impossibilities. I entreat you, in
Minna's interests--oh! not in mine!--to modify them."
The tone in which those words fell from her lips was so unnaturally
quiet, that Mrs. Wagner suddenly turned again with a start, and faced
her.
"What do you mean by impossibilities? Explain yourself."
"You are an honest woman, and I am a thief," Madame Fontaine answered,
with the same ominous composure. "How can explanations pass between you
and me? Have I not spoken plainly enough already? In my position, I say
again, your conditions are impossibilities--especially the first of
them."
There was something in the bitterly ironical manner which accompanied
this reply that was almost insolent. Mrs. Wagner's color began to rise
for the first time. "Honest conditions are always possible conditions to
honest people," she said.
Perfectly unmoved by the reproof implied in those words, Madame Fontaine
persisted in pressing her request. "I only ask you to modify your terms,"
she explained. "Let us understand each other. Do you still insist on my
replacing what I have taken, by the morning of the sixth of this month?"
"I still insist."
"Do you still expect me to resign my position here as director of the
household, on the day when Fritz and Minna have become man and wife?"
"I still expect that."
"Permit me to set the second condition aside for awhile. Suppose I fail
to replace the five thousand florins in your reserve fund?"
"If you fail, I shall do my duty to Mr. Keller, when we divide profits on
the sixth of the month."
"And you will expose me in this way, knowing that you make the marriage
impossible--knowing that you doom my daughter to shame and misery for the
rest of her life?"
"I shall expose you, knowing that I have kept your guilty secret to the
last moment--and knowing what I owe to my partner and to myself. You have
still four days to spare. Make the most of your time."
"I can do absolutely nothing in the time."
"Have you tried?"
The suppressed fury in Madame Fontaine began to get beyond her control.
"Do you think I should have exposed myself to the insults that you have
heaped upon me if I had _not_ tried?" she asked. "Can I get the money
back from the man to whom it was paid at Wurzburg, when my note fell due
on the last day of the old year? Do I know anybody who will lend me five
thousand florins? Will my father do it? His house has been closed to me
for twenty years--and my mother, who might have interceded for me, is
dead. Can I appeal to the sympathy and compassion (once already refused
in the hardest terms) of my merciless relatives in this city? I have
appealed! I forced my way to them yesterday--I owned that I owed a sum of
money which was more, far more, than I could pay. I drank the bitter cup
of humiliation to the dregs--I even offered my daughter's necklace as
security for a loan. Do you want to know what reply I received? The
master of the house turned his back on me; the mistress told me to my
face that she believed I had stolen the necklace. Was the punishment of
my offense severe enough, when I heard those words? Surely I have
asserted some claim to your pity, at last? I only want more time. With a
few months before me--with my salary as housekeeper, and the sale of my
little valuables, and the proceeds of my work for the picture-dealers--I
can, and will, replace the money. You are rich. What is a loan of five
thousand florins to you? Help me to pass through the terrible ordeal of
your day of reckoning on the sixth of the month! Help me to see Minna
married and happy! And if you still doubt my word, take the pearl
necklace as security that you will suffer no loss."
Struck speechless by the outrageous audacity of this proposal, Mrs.
Wagner answered by a look, and advanced to the door. Madame Fontaine
instantly stopped her.
"Wait!" cried the desperate creature. "Think--before you refuse me!"
Mrs. Wagner's indignation found its way at last into words. "I deserved
this," she said, "when I allowed you to speak to me. Let me pass, if you
please."
Madame Fontaine made a last effort--she fell on her knees. "Your hard
words have roused my pride," she said; "I have forgotten that I am a
disgraced woman; I have not spoken humbly enough. See! I am humbled
now--I implore your mercy on my knees. This is not only _my_ last chance;
it is Minna's last chance. Don't blight my poor girl's life, for my
fault!"
"For the second time, Madame Fontaine, I request you to let me pass.
"Without an answer to my entreaties? Am I not even worthy of an answer?"
"Your entreaties are an insult. I forgive you the insult."
Madame Fontaine rose to her feet. Every trace of agitation disappeared
from her face and her manner. "Yes," she said, with the unnatural
composure that was so strangely out of harmony with the terrible position
in which she stood--"Yes, from your point of view, I can't deny that it
may seem like an insult. When a thief, who has already robbed a person of
money, asks that same person to lend her more money, by way of atoning
for the theft, there is something very audacious (on the surface) in such
a request. I can't fairly expect you to understand the despair which
wears such an insolent look. Accept my apologies, madam; I didn't see it
at first in that light. I must do what I can, while your merciful silence
still protects me from discovery--I must do what I can between this and
the sixth of the month. Permit me to open the door for you." She opened
the drawing-room door, and waited.
Mrs. Wagner's heart suddenly quickened its beat.
Under what influence? Could it be fear? She was indignant with herself at
the bare suspicion of it. Her face flushed deeply, under the momentary
apprehension that some outward change might betray her. She left the
room, without even trusting herself to look at the woman who stood by the
open door, and bowed to her with an impenetrable assumption of respect as
she passed out.
Madame Fontaine remained in the drawing-room.
She violently closed the door with a stroke of her hand--staggered across
the room to a sofa--and dropped on it. A hoarse cry of rage and despair
burst from her, now that she was alone. In the fear that someone might
hear her, she forced her handkerchief into her mouth, and fastened her
teeth into it. The paroxysm passed, she sat up on the sofa, and wiped the
perspiration from her face, and smiled to herself. "It was well I stopped
here," she thought; "I might have met someone on the stairs."
As she rose to leave the drawing-room, Fritz's voice reached her from the
far end of the corridor.
"You are out of spirits, Minna. Come in, and let us try what a little
music will do for you."
The door leading into the recess was opened. Minna's voice became audible
next, on the inner side of the curtains.
"I am afraid I can't sing to-day, Fritz. I am very unhappy about mamma.
She looks so anxious and so ill; and when I ask what is troubling her,
she puts me off with an excuse."
The melody of those fresh young tones, the faithful love and sympathy
which the few simple words expressed, seemed to wring with an unendurable
pain the whole being of the mother who heard them. She lifted her hands
above her head, and clenched them in the agony which could only venture
to seek that silent means of relief. With swift steps, as if the sound of
her daughter's voice was unendurable to her, she made for the door. But
her movements, on ordinary occasions the perfection of easy grace, felt
the disturbing influence of the agitation that possessed her. In avoiding
a table on one side, as she passed it, she struck against a chair on the
other.
Fritz instantly opened the curtains, and looked through. "Why, here is
mamma!" he exclaimed, in his hearty boyish way.
Minna instantly closed the piano, and hastened to her mother. When Madame
Fontaine looked at her, she paused, with an expression of alarm. "Oh, how
dreadfully pale and ill you look!" She advanced again, and tried to throw
her arms round her mother, and kiss her. Gently, very gently, Madame
Fontaine signed to her to draw back.
"Mamma! what have I done to offend you?"
"Nothing, my dear."
"Then why won't you let me come to you?"
"No time now, Minna. I have something to do. Wait till I have done it."
"Not even one little kiss, mamma?"
Madame Fontaine hurried out of the room without answering and ran up the
stairs without looking back. Minna's eyes filled with tears. Fritz stood
at the open door, bewildered.
"I wouldn't have believed it, if anybody had told me," he said; "your
mother seems to be afraid to let you touch her."
Fritz had made many mistaken guesses in his time--but, for once, he had
guessed right. She _was_ afraid.
CHAPTER XII
As the presiding genius of the household, Madame Fontaine was always
first in the room when the table was laid for the early German dinner. A
knife with a speck on the blade, a plate with a suspicion of dirt on it,
never once succeeded in escaping her observation. If Joseph folded a
napkin carelessly, Joseph not only heard of it, but suffered the
indignity of seeing his work performed for him to perfection by the
housekeeper's dexterous hands.
On the second day of the New Year, she was at her post as usual, and
Joseph stood convicted of being wasteful in the matter of wine.
He had put one bottle of Ohligsberger on the table, at the place occupied
by Madame Fontaine. The wine had already been used at the dinner and the
supper of the previous day. At least two-thirds of it had been drunk.
Joseph set down a second bottle on the opposite side of the table, and
produced his corkscrew. Madame Fontaine took it out of his hand.
"Why do you open that bottle, before you are sure it will be wanted?" She
asked sharply. "You know that Mr. Keller and his son prefer beer."
"There is so little left in the other bottle," Joseph pleaded; "not a
full tumbler altogether."
"It may be enough, little as it is, for Mrs. Wagner and for me." With
that reply she pointed to the door. Joseph retired, leaving her alone at
the table, until the dinner was ready to be brought into the room.
In five minutes more, the family assembled at their meal.
Joseph performed his customary duties sulkily, resenting the
housekeeper's reproof. When the time came for filling the glasses, he had
the satisfaction of hearing Madame Fontaine herself give him orders to
draw the cork of a new bottle, after all.
Mrs. Wagner turned to Jack, standing behind her chair as usual, and asked
for some wine. Madame Fontaine instantly took up the nearly empty bottle
by her side, and, half-filling a glass, handed it with grave politeness
across the table. "If you have no objection," she said, "we will finish
one bottle, before we open another."
Mrs. Wagner drank her small portion of wine at a draught. "It doesn't
seem to keep well, after it has once been opened," she remarked, as she
set down her glass. "The wine has quite lost the good flavor it had
yesterday."
"It ought to keep well," said Mr. Keller, speaking from his place at the
top of the table. "It's old wine, and good wine. Let me taste what is
left."
Joseph advanced to carry the remains of the wine to his master. But
Madame Fontaine was beforehand with him. "Open the other bottle
directly," she said--and rose so hurriedly to take the wine herself to
Mr. Keller, that she caught her foot in her dress. In saving herself from
falling, she lost her hold of the bottle. It broke in two pieces, and the
little wine left in it ran out on the floor.
"Pray forgive me," she said, smiling faintly. "It is the first thing I
have broken since I have been in the house."
The wine from the new bottle was offered to Mrs. Wagner. She declined to
take any: and she left her dinner unfinished on her plate.
"My appetite is very easily spoilt," she said. "I dare say there might
have been something I didn't notice in the glass--or perhaps my taste may
be out of order."
"Very likely," said Mr. Keller. "You didn't find anything wrong with the
wine yesterday. And there is certainly nothing to complain of in the new
bottle," he added, after tasting it. "Let us have your opinion, Madame
Fontaine."
He filled the housekeeper's glass. "I am a poor judge of wine," she
remarked humbly. "It seems to me to be delicious."
She put her glass down, and noticed that Jack's eyes were fixed on her,
with a solemn and scrutinizing attention. "Do you see anything remarkable
in me?" she asked lightly.
"I was thinking," Jack answered.
"Thinking of what?"
"This is the first time I ever saw you in danger of tumbling down. It
used to be a remark of mine, at Wurzburg, that you were as sure-footed as
a cat. That's all."
"Don't you know that there are exceptions to all rules?" said Madame
Fontaine, as amiably as ever. "I notice an exception in You," she
continued, suddenly changing the subject. "What has become of your
leather bag? May I ask if you have taken away his keys, Mrs. Wagner?"
She had noticed Jack's pride in his character as "Keeper of the Keys."
There would be no fear of his returning to the subject of what he had
remarked at Wurzburg, if she stung him in _that_ tender place. The result
did not fail to justify her anticipations. In fierce excitement, Jack
jumped up on the hind rail of his mistress's chair, eager for the most
commanding position that he could obtain, and opened his lips to tell the
story of the night alarm. Before he could utter a word, Mrs. Wagner
stopped him, with a very unusual irritability of look and manner. "The
question was put to _me,"_ she said. "I am taking care of the keys,
Madame Fontaine, at Jack's own request. He can have them back again,
whenever he chooses to ask for them."
"Tell her about the thief," Jack whispered.
"Be quiet!"
Jack was silenced at last. He retired to a corner. When he followed Mrs.
Wagner as usual, on her return to her duties in the office he struck his
favorite place on the window seat with his clenched fist. "The devil take
Frankfort!" he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I hate Frankfort. You were always kind to me in London. You do nothing
but lose your temper with me here. It's really too cruel. Why shouldn't I
have told Mrs. Housekeeper how I lost my keys in the night? Now I come to
think of it, I believe she was the thief."
"Hush! hush! you must not say that. Come and shake hands, Jack, and make
it up. I do feel irritable--I don't know what's the matter with me.
Remember, Mr. Keller doesn't like your joining in the talk at
dinner-time--he thinks it is taking a liberty. That was one reason why I
stopped you. And you might have said something to offend Madame
Fontaine--that was another. It will not be long before we go back to our
dear old London. Now, be a good boy, and leave me to my work."
Jack was not quite satisfied; but he was quiet again.
For awhile he sat watching Mrs. Wagner at her work. His thoughts went
back to the subject of the keys. Other people--the younger clerks and the
servants, for example--might have observed that he was without his bag,
and might have injuriously supposed that the keys had been taken away
from him. Little by little, he reached the conclusion that he had been in
too great a hurry perhaps to give up the bag. Why not prove himself to be
worthier of it than ever, by asking to have it back again, and taking
care always to lock the door of his bedroom at night? He looked at Mrs.
Wagner, to see if she paused over her work, so as to give him an
opportunity of speaking to her.
She was not at work; she was not pausing over it. Her head hung down over
her breast; her hands and arms lay helpless on the desk.
He got up and crossed the room on tiptoe, to look at her.
She was not asleep.
Slowly and silently, she turned her head. Her eyes stared at him awfully.
Her mouth was a little crooked. There was a horrid gray paleness all over
her face.
He dropped terrified on his knees, and clasped her dress in both hands.
"Oh, Mistress, Mistress, you are ill! What can I do for you?"
She tried to reassure him by a smile. Her mouth became more crooked
still. "I'm not well," she said, speaking thickly and slowly, with an
effort. "Help me down. Bed. Bed."
He held out his hands. With another effort, she lifted her arms from the
desk, and turned to him on the high office-stool.
"Take hold of me," she said.
"I have got hold of you, Mistress! I have got your hands in my hands.
Don't you feel it?"
"Press me harder."
He closed his hands on hers with all his strength. Did she feel it now?
Yes; she could just feel it now.
Leaning heavily upon him, she set her feet on the floor. She felt with
them as if she was feeling the floor, without quite understanding that
she stood on it. The next moment, she reeled against the desk. "Giddy,"
she said, faintly and thickly. "My head." Her eyes looked at him, cold
and big and staring. They maddened the poor affectionate creature with
terror. The frightful shrillness of the past days in Bedlam was in his
voice, as he screamed for help.
Mr. Keller rushed into the room from his office, followed by the clerks.
"Fetch the doctor, one of you," he cried. "Stop."
He mastered himself directly, and called to mind what he had heard of the
two physicians who had attended him, during his own illness. "Not the old
man," he said. "Fetch Doctor Dormann. Joseph will show you where he
lives." He turned to another of the clerks, supporting Mrs. Wagner in his
arms while he spoke. "Ring the bell in the hall--the upstairs bell for
Madame Fontaine!"
CHAPTER XIII
Madame Fontaine instantly left her room. Alarmed by the violent ringing
of the bell, Minna followed her mother downstairs. The door of the office
was open; they both saw what had happened as soon as they reached the
hall. In sending for Madame Fontaine, Mr. Keller had placed a natural
reliance on the experience and presence of mind of a woman of her age and
character. To his surprise, she seemed to be as little able to control
herself as her daughter. He was obliged to summon the assistance of the
elder of the female servants, in carrying Mrs. Wagner to her room. Jack
went with them, holding one of his mistress's helpless hands.
His first paroxysm of terror had passed away with the appearance of Mr.
Keller and the clerk, and had left his weak mind stunned by the shock
that had fallen on it. He looked about him vacantly. Once or twice, on
the slow sad progress up the stairs, they heard him whispering to
himself, "She won't die--no, no, no; she won't die." His only consolation
seemed to be in that helpless confession of faith. When they laid her on
the bed, he was close at the side of the pillow. With an effort, her eyes
turned on him. With an effort she whispered, "The Key!"
He understood her--the desk downstairs had been left unlocked.
"I'll take care of the key, Mistress; I'll take care of them all," he
said.
As he left the room, he repeated his comforting words, "She won't
die--no, no, no; she won't die." He locked the desk and placed the key
with the rest in his bag.
Leaving the office with the bag slung over his shoulder, he stopped at
the door of the dining-room, on the opposite side of the hall. His head
felt strangely dull. A sudden suspicion that the feeling might show
itself in his face, made him change his mind and pause before he ascended
the stairs. There was a looking-glass in the dining-room. He went
straight to the glass, and stood before it, studying the reflection of
his face with breathless anxiety. "Do I look stupid-mad?" he asked
himself. "They won't let me be with her; they'll send me away, if I look
stupid-mad."
He turned from the glass, and dropped on his knees before the nearest
chair. "Perhaps God will keep me quiet," he thought, "if I say my
prayers."
Repeating his few simple words, the poor creature's memory vaguely
recalled to him the happy time when his good mistress had first taught
him his prayers. The one best relief that could come to him, came--the
relief of tears. Mr. Keller, descending to the hall in his impatience for
the arrival of the doctor, found himself unexpectedly confronted by Mrs.
Wagner's crazy attendant.
"May I go upstairs to Mistress?" Jack asked humbly. "I've said my
prayers, sir, and I've had a good cry--and my head's easier now."
Mr. Keller spoke to him more gently than usual. "You had better not
disturb your mistress before the doctor comes."
"May I wait outside her door, sir? I promise to be very quiet."
Mr. Keller consented by a sign. Jack took off his shoes, and noiselessly
ascended the stairs. Before he reached the first landing, he turned and
looked back into the hall. "Mind this!" he announced very earnestly; "I
say she won't die--_I_ say that!"
He went on up the stairs. For the first time Mr. Keller began to pity the
harmless little man whom he had hitherto disliked. "Poor wretch!" he said
to himself, as he paced up and down the hall, "what will become of him,
if she does die?"
In ten minutes more, Doctor Dormann arrived at the house.
His face showed that he thought badly of the case, as soon as he looked
at Mrs. Wagner. He examined her, and made all the necessary inquiries,
with the unremitting attention to details which was part of his
professional character. One of his questions could only be answered
generally. Having declared his opinion that the malady was paralysis, and
that some of the symptoms were far from being common in his medical
experience, he inquired if Mrs. Wagner had suffered from any previous
attack of the disease. Mr. Keller could only reply that he had known her
from the time of her marriage, and that he had never (in the course of a
long and intimate correspondence with her husband) heard of her having
suffered from serious illness of any kind. Doctor Dormann looked at his
patient narrowly, and looked back again at Mr. Keller with unconcealed
surprise.
"At her age," he said, "I have never seen any first attack of paralysis
so complicated and so serious as this."
"Is there danger?" Mr. Keller asked in a whisper.
"She is not an old woman," the doctor answered; "there is always hope.
The practice in these cases generally is to bleed. In this case, the
surface of the body is cold; the heart's action is feeble--I don't like
to try bleeding, if I can possibly avoid it."
After some further consideration, he directed a system of treatment
which, in some respects, anticipated the practice of a later and wiser
time. Having looked at the women assembled round the bed--and especially
at Madame Fontaine--he said he would provide a competent nurse, and would
return to see the effect of the remedies in two hours.
Looking at Madame Fontaine, after the doctor had gone away, Mr. Keller
felt more perplexed than ever. She presented the appearance of a woman
who was completely unnerved. "I am afraid you are far from well
yourself," he said.
"I have not felt well, sir, for some time past," she answered, without
looking at him.
"You had better try what rest and quiet will do for you," he suggested.
"Yes, I think so." With that reply--not even offering, for the sake of
appearances, to attend on Mrs. Wagner until the nurse arrived--she took
her daughter's arm, and went out.
The woman-servant was fortunately a discreet person. She remembered the
medical instructions, and she undertook all needful duties, until the
nurse relieved her. Jack (who had followed the doctor into the room, and
had watched him attentively) was sent away again for the time. He would
go no farther than the outer side of the door. Mr. Keller passed him,
crouched up on the mat, biting his nails. He was apparently thinking of
the doctor. He said to himself, "That man looked puzzled; that man knows
nothing about it."
In the meantime, Madame Fontaine reached her room.
"Where is Fritz?" she asked, dropping her daughter's arm.
"He has gone out, mamma. Don't send me away! You seem to be almost as ill
as poor Mrs. Wagner--I want to be with you."
Madame Fontaine hesitated. "Do you love me with all your heart and soul?"
she asked suddenly. "Are you worthy of any sacrifice that a mother can
make for her child?"
Before the girl could answer, she spoke more strangely still.
"Are you just as fond of Fritz as ever? would it break your heart if you
lost him?"
Minna placed her mother's hand on her bosom.
"Feel it, mamma," she said quietly. Madame Fontaine took her chair by the
fire-side--seating herself with her back to the light. She beckoned to
her daughter to sit by her. After an interval, Minna ventured to break
the silence.
"I am very sorry for Mrs. Wagner, mamma; she has always been so kind to
me. Do you think she will die?" Resting her elbows on her knees, staring
into the fire, the widow lifted her head--looked round--and looked back
again at the fire.
"Ask the doctor," she said. "Don't ask me."
There was another long interval of silence. Minna's eyes were fixed
anxiously on her mother. Madame Fontaine remained immovable, still
looking into the fire.
Afraid to speak again, Minna sought refuge from the oppressive stillness
in a little act of attention. She took a fire-screen from the
chimney-piece, and tried to place it gently in her mother's hand.
At that light touch, Madame Fontaine sprang to her feet as if she had
felt the point of a knife. Had she seen some frightful thing? had she
heard some dreadful sound? "I can't bear it!" she cried--"I can't bear it
any longer!"
"Are you in pain, mamma? Will you lie down on the bed?" Her mother only
looked at her. She drew back trembling, and said no more.
Madame Fontaine crossed the room to the wardrobe. When she spoke next,
she was outwardly quite calm again. "I am going out for a walk," she
said.
"A walk, mamma? It's getting dark already."
"Dark or light, my nerves are all on edge--I must have air and exercise."
"Let me go with you?"
She paced backwards and forwards restlessly, before she answered. "The
room isn't half large enough!" she burst out. "I feel suffocated in these
four walls. Space! space! I must have space to breathe in! Did you say
you wished to go out with me? I want a companion, Minna. Don't you mind
the cold?"
"I don't even feel it, in my fur cloak."
"Get ready, then, directly."
In ten minutes more, the mother and daughter were out of the house.
CHAPTER XIV
Doctor Dormann was punctual to his appointment. He was accompanied by a
stranger, whom he introduced as a surgeon. As before, Jack slipped into
the room, and waited in a corner, listening and watching attentively.
Instead of improving under the administration of the remedies, the state
of the patient had sensibly deteriorated. On the rare occasions when she
attempted to speak, it was almost impossible to understand her. The sense
of touch seemed to be completely lost--the poor woman could no longer
feel the pressure of a friendly hand. And more ominous still, a new
symptom had appeared; it was with evident difficulty that she performed
the act of swallowing. Doctor Dormann turned resignedly to the surgeon.
"There is no other alternative," he said; "you must bleed her."
At the sight of the lancet and the bandage, Jack started out of his
corner. His teeth were fast set; his eyes glared with rage. Before he
could approach the surgeon Mr. Keller took him sternly by the arm and
pointed to the door. He shook himself free--he saw the point of the
lancet touch the vein. As the blood followed the incision, a cry of
horror burst from him: he ran out of the room.
"Wretches! Tigers! How dare they take her blood from her! Oh, why am I
only a little man? why am I not strong enough to fling the brutes out of
the window? Mistress! Mistress! is there nothing I can do to help you?"
These wild words poured from his lips in the solitude of his little
bedchamber. In the agony that he suffered, as the sense of Mrs. Wagner's
danger now forced itself on him, he rolled on the floor, and struck
himself with his clenched fists. And, again and again, he cried out to
her, "Mistress! Mistress! is there nothing I can do to help you?"
The strap that secured his keys became loosened, as his frantic movements
beat the leather bag, now on one side, and now on the other, upon the
floor. The jingling of the keys rang in his ears. For a moment, he lay
quite still. Then, he sat up on the floor. He tried to think calmly.
There was no candle in the room. The nearest light came from a lamp on
the landing below. He got up, and went softly down the stairs. Alone on
the landing, he held up the bag and looked at it. "There's something in
my mind, trying to speak to me," he said to himself. "Perhaps, I shall
find it in here?"
He knelt down under the light, and shook out the keys on the landing.
One by one he ranged them in a row, with a single exception. The key of
the desk happened to be the first that he took up. He kissed it--it was
_her_ key--and put it back in the bag. Placing the others before him, the
duplicate key was the last in the line. The inscription caught his eye.
He held it to the light and read "Pink-Room Cupboard."
The lost recollection now came back to him in intelligible form. The
"remedy" that Madame Fontaine had locked up--the precious "remedy" made
by the wonderful master who knew everything--was at his disposal. He had
only to open the cupboard, and to have it in his own possession.
He threw the other keys back into the bag. They rattled as he ran down
the lower flight of stairs. Opposite to the offices, he stopped and
buckled them tight with the strap. No noise! Nothing to alarm Mrs.
Housekeeper! He ascended the stairs in the other wing of the house, and
paused again when he approached Madame Fontaine's room. By this time, he
was in the perilous fever of excitement, which was still well remembered
among the authorities of Bedlam. Suppose the widow happened to be in her
room? Suppose she refused to let him have the "remedy"?
He looked at the outstretched fingers of his right hand. "I am strong
enough to throttle a woman," he said, "and I'll do it."
He opened the door without knocking, without stopping to listen outside.
Not a creature was in the room.
In another moment the fatal dose of "Alexander's Wine," which he
innocently believed to be a beneficent remedy, was in his possession.
As he put it into the breast-pocket of his coat, the wooden chest caught
his eye. He reached it down and tried the lid. The lid opened in his
hand, and disclosed the compartments and the bottles placed in them. One
of the bottles rose higher by an inch or two than any of the others. He
drew that one out first to look at it, and discovered--the "blue-glass
bottle."
From that moment all idea of trying the effect on Mrs. Wagner of the
treacherous "remedy" in his pocket vanished from his mind. He had secured
the inestimable treasure, known to him by his own experience. Here was
the heavenly bottle that had poured life down his throat, when he lay
dying at Wurzburg! This was the true and only doctor who had saved Mr.
Keller's life, when the poor helpless fools about his bed had given him
up for lost! The Mistress, the dear Mistress, was as good as cured
already. Not a drop more of her precious blood should be shed by the
miscreant, who had opened his knife and wounded her. Oh, of all the
colors in the world, there's no color like blue! Of all the friends in
the world, there never was such a good friend as this! He kissed and
hugged the bottle as if it had been a living thing. He jumped up and
danced about the room with it in his arms. Ha! what music there was in
the inner gurgling and splashing of the shaken liquid, which told him
that there was still some left for the Mistress! The striking of the
clock on the mantelpiece sobered him at the height of his ecstasy. It
told him that time was passing. Minute by minute, Death might be getting
nearer and nearer to her; and there he was, with Life in his possession,
wasting the time, far from her bedside.
On his way to the door, he stopped. His eyes turned slowly towards the
inner part of the room. They rested on the open cupboard--and then they
looked at the wooden chest, left on the floor.
Suppose the housekeeper should return, and see the key in the cupboard,
and the chest with one of the bottles missing?
His only counselor at that critical moment was his cunning; stimulated
into action by the closely related motive powers of his inbred vanity,
and his devotion to the benefactress whom he loved.
The chance of being discovered by Madame Fontaine never entered into his
calculations. He cared nothing whether she discovered him or not--he had
got the bottle, and woe to her if she tried to take it away from him!
What he really dreaded was, that the housekeeper might deprive him of the
glory of saving Mrs. Wagner's life, if she found out what had happened.
She might follow him to the bedside; she might claim the blue-glass
bottle as her property; she might say, "I saved Mr. Keller; and now I
have saved Mrs. Wagner. This little man is only the servant who gave the
dose, which any other hand might have poured out in his place."
Until these considerations occurred to him, his purpose had been to
announce his wonderful discovery publicly at Mrs. Wagner's bedside. This
intention he now abandoned, without hesitation. He saw a far more
inviting prospect before him. What a glorious position for him it would
be, if he watched his opportunity of administering the life-giving liquid
privately--if he waited till everybody was astonished at the speedy
recovery of the suffering woman--and then stood up before them all, and
proclaimed himself as the man who had restored her to health!
He replaced the chest, and locked the cupboard; taking the key away with
him. Returning to the door, he listened intently to make sure that nobody
was outside, and kept the blue-glass bottle hidden under his coat when he
ventured at last to leave the room. He reached the other wing of the
house, and ascended the second flight of stairs, without interruption of
any kind. Safe again in his own room, he watched through the half-opened
door.
Before long, Doctor Dormann and the surgeon appeared, followed by Mr.
Keller. The three went downstairs together. On the way, the Doctor
mentioned that he had secured a nurse for the night.
Still keeping the bottle concealed, Jack knocked softly at the door, and
entered Mrs. Wagner's room.
He first looked at the bed. She lay still and helpless, noticing nothing;
to all appearance, poor soul, a dying woman. The servant was engaged in
warming something over the fire. She shook her head gloomily, when Jack
inquired if any favorable change had place in his absence. He sat down,
vainly trying to discover how he might find the safe opportunity of which
he was in search.
The slow minutes followed each other. After a little while the
woman-servant looked at the clock. "It's time Mrs. Wagner had her
medicine," she remarked, still occupied with her employment at the fire.
Jack saw his opportunity in those words. "Please let me give the
medicine," he said.
"Bring it here," she answered; "I mustn't trust anybody to measure it
out.
"Surely I can give it to her, now it's ready?" Jack persisted.
The woman handed the glass to him. "I can't very well leave what I am
about," she said. "Mind you are careful not to spill any of it. She's as
patient as a lamb, poor creature. If she can only swallow it, she won't
give you any trouble."
Jack carried the glass round to the farther side of the bed, so as to
keep the curtains as a screen between himself and the fire-place. He
softly dropped out the contents of the glass on the carpet, and filled it
again from the bottle concealed under his coat. Waiting a moment after
that, he looked towards the door. What if the housekeeper came in, and
saw the blue-glass bottle? He snatched it up--an empty bottle now--and
put it in the side-pocket of his coat, and arranged his handkerchief so
as to hide that part of it which the pocket was not deep enough to
conceal. "Now!" he thought to himself, "now I may venture!" He gently put
his arm round Mrs. Wagner, and raised her on the pillow.
"Your medicine, dear Mistress," he whispered. "You will take it from poor
Jack, won't you?"
The sense of hearing still remained. Her vacant eyes turned towards him
by slow degrees. No outward expression answered to her thought; she could
show him that she submitted, and she could do no more.
He dashed away the tears that blinded him. Supported by the firm belief
that he was saving her life, he took the glass from the bedside-table and
put it to her lips.
With painful efforts, with many intervals of struggling breath, she
swallowed the contents of the glass, by a few drops at a time. He held it
up under the shadowed lamplight, and saw that it was empty.
As he laid her head back on the pillows, he ventured to touch her cold
cheek with his lips. "Has she taken it?" the woman asked. He was just
able to answer "Yes"--just able to look once more at the dear face on the
pillow. The tumult of contending emotions, against which he had struggled
thus far, overpowered his utmost resistance. He ran to hide the
hysterical passion in him, forcing its way to relief in sobs and cries,
on the landing outside.
In the calmer moments that followed, the fear still haunted him that
Madame Fontaine might discover the empty compartment in the
medicine-chest--might search every room in the house for the lost
bottle--and might find it empty. Even if he broke it, and threw the
fragments into the dusthole, the fragments might be remarked for their
beautiful blue color, and the discovery might follow. Where could he hide
it?
While he was still trying to answer that question, the hours of business
came to an end, and the clerks were leaving the offices below. He heard
them talking about the hard frost as they went out. One of them said
there were blocks of ice floating down the river already. The river! It
was within a few minutes' walk of the house. Why not throw the bottle
into the river?
He waited until there was perfect silence below, and then stole
downstairs. As he opened the door, a strange man met him, ascending the
house-steps, with a little traveling bag in his hand.
"Is this Mr. Keller's?" asked the strange man.
He was a jolly-looking old fellow with twinkling black eyes and a big red
nose. His breath was redolent of the smell of wine, and his thick lips
expanded into a broad grin, when he looked at Jack.
"My name's Schwartz," he said; "and here in this bag are my sister's
things for the night."
"Who is your sister?" Jack inquired.
Schwartz laughed. "Quite right, little man, how should you know who she
is? My sister's the nurse. She's hired by Doctor Dormann, and she'll be
here in an hour's time. I say! that's a pretty bottle you're hiding there
under your coat. Is there any wine in it?"
Jack began to tremble. He had been discovered by a stranger. Even the
river might not be deep enough to keep his secret now!
"The cold has got into my inside," proceeded the jolly old man. "Be a
good little fellow--and give us a drop!"
"I haven't got any wine in it," Jack answered.
Schwartz laid his forefinger confidentially along the side of his big red
nose. "I understand," he said, "you were just going out to get some." He
put his sister's bag on one of the chairs in the hall, and took Jack's
arm in the friendliest manner. "Suppose you come along with me?" he
suggested. "I am the man to help you to the best tap of wine in
Frankfort. Bless your heart! you needn't feel ashamed of being in my
company. My sister's a most respectable woman. And what do you think I
am? I'm one of the city officers. Ho! ho! just think of that! I'm not
joking, mind. The regular Night Watchman at the Deadhouse is ill in bed,
and they're obliged to find somebody to take his place till he gets well
again. I'm the Somebody. They tried two other men--but the Deadhouse gave
them the horrors. My respectable sister spoke for me, you know. "The
regular watchman will be well in a week," she says; "try him for a week."
And they tried me. I'm not proud, though I am a city officer. Come
along--and let me carry the bottle."
"The bottle" again! And, just as this intrusive person spoke of it,
Joseph's voice was audible below, and Joseph's footsteps gave notice that
he was ascending the kitchen stairs. In the utter bewilderment of the
moment, Jack ran out, with the one idea of escaping the terrible
possibilities of discovery in the hall. He heard the door closed behind
him--then heavy boots thumping the pavement at a quick trot. Before he
had got twenty yards from the house, the vinous breath of Schwartz puffed
over his shoulder, and the arm of the deputy-night-watchman took
possession of him again.
"Not too fast--I'm nimble on my legs for a man of my age--but not too
fast," said his new friend. "You're just the sort of little man I like.
My sister will tell you I take sudden fancies to people of your
complexion. My sister's a most respectable woman. What's your
name?--Jack? A capital name! Short, with a smack in it like the crack of
a whip. _Do_ give me the bottle!" He took it this time, without waiting
to have it given to him. "There! might drop it, you know," he said. "It's
safe in my friendly hands. Where are you going to? You don't deal, I
hope, at the public-house up that way? A word in your ear--the infernal
scoundrel waters his wine. Here's the turning where the honest publican
lives. I have the truest affection for him. I have the truest affection
for you. Would you like to see the Deadhouse, some night? It's against
the rules; but that don't matter. The cemetery overseer is a deal too
fond of his bed to turn out these cold nights and look after the
watchman. It's just the right place for me. There's nothing to do but to
drink, when you have got the liquor; and to sleep, when you haven't. The
Dead who come our way, my little friend, have one great merit. We are
supposed to help them, if they're perverse enough to come to life again
before they're buried. There they lie in our house, with one end of the
line tied to their fingers, and the other end at the spring of the
alarm-bell. And they have never rung the bell yet--never once, bless
their hearts, since the Deadhouse was built! Come and see me in the
course of the week, and we'll drink a health to our quiet neighbors."
They arrived at the door of the public-house.
"You've got some money about you, I suppose?" said Schwartz.
Madame Fontaine's generosity, when she gave Jack the money to buy a pair
of gloves, had left a small surplus in his pocket. He made a last effort
to escape from the deputy-watchman. "There's the money," he said. "Give me
back the bottle, and go and drink by yourself."
Schwartz took him by the shoulder, and surveyed him from head to foot by
the light of the public-house lamp. "Drink by myself?" he repeated. "Am I
a jolly fellow, or am I not? Yes, or No?"
"Yes," said Jack, trying hard to release himself.
Schwartz tightened his hold. "Did you ever hear of a jolly fellow, who
left his friend at the public-house door?" he asked.
"If you please, sir, I don't drink," Jack pleaded.
Schwartz burst into a great roar of laughter, and kicked open the door of
the public-house. "That's the best joke I ever heard in my life," he
said. "We've got money enough to fill the bottle, and to have a glass
a-piece besides. Come along!"
He dragged Jack into the house. The bottle was filled; the glasses were
filled. "My sister's health! Long life and prosperity to my respectable
sister! You can't refuse to drink the toast." With those words, he put
the fatal glass into his companion's hand.
Jack tasted the wine. It was cool; it was good. Perhaps it was not so
strong as Mr. Keller's wine? He tried it again--and emptied the glass.
An hour later, there was a ring at the door of Mr. Keller's house.
Joseph opened the door, and discovered a red-nosed old man, holding up
another man who seemed to be three parts asleep, and who was quite unable
to stand on his legs without assistance. The light of the hall lamp fell
on this helpless creature's face, and revealed--Jack.
"Put him to bed," said the red-nosed stranger. "And, look here, take
charge of the bottle for him, or he'll break it. Somehow, the wine has
all leaked out. Where's my sister's bag?"
"Do you mean the nurse?"
"Of course I do! I defy the world to produce the nurse's equal. Has she
come?"
Joseph held up his hand with a gesture of grave reproof.
"Not so loud," he said. "The nurse has come too late."
"Has the lady got well again?"
"The lady is dead."
CHAPTER XV