Jezebel's Daughter

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--Jac
k'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,