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 h
er 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
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.
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