Jezebel's Daughter

by Wilkie Collins

of time in such cases--it was the examination (judging by certain

  expressions which escaped him) of a man who seemed to be unwilling to

  trust his own experience. The new nurse arrived, before he had definitely

  expressed his opinion; and the servant was instructed to keep her waiting

  downstairs. In expectation of the doctor's report, Mr. Keller remained in

  the bedroom. Doctor Dormann might not have noticed this circumstance, or

  might not have cared to conceal what was passing in his mind. In either

  case, when he spoke at last, he expressed himself in these extraordinary

  terms:--

  "The second suspicious illness in this house! And the second

  incomprehensible end to it!"

  Mr. Keller at once stepped forward, and showed himself.

  "Did you mean me to hear what you have just said?" he asked.

  The doctor looked at him gravely and sadly. "I must speak to you

  privately, Mr. Keller. Before we leave the room, permit me to send for

  the nurse. You may safely trust her to perform the last sad duties."

  Mr. Keller started. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "is Mrs. Wagner dead?"

  "To my astonishment, she is dead." He laid a strong emphasis on the first

  part of his reply.

  The nurse having received her instructions, Mr. Keller led the way to his

  private room. "In my responsible position," he said, "I may not

  unreasonably expect that you will explain yourself without reserve."

  "On such a serious matter as this," Doctor Dormann answered, "it is my

  duty to speak without reserve. The person whom you employ to direct the

  funeral will ask you for the customary certificate. I refuse to give it."

  This startling declaration roused a feeling of anger, rather than of

  alarm, in a man of Mr. Keller's resolute character. "For what reason do

  you refuse?" he asked sternly.

  "I am not satisfied, sir, that Mrs. Wagner has died a natural death. My

  experience entirely fails to account for the suddenly fatal termination

  of the disease, in the case of a patient of her healthy constitution, and

  at her comparatively early age."

  "Doctor Dormann, do you suspect there is a poisoner in my house?"

  "In plain words, I do."

  "In plain words on my side, I ask why?"

  "I have already given you my reason."

  "Is your experience infallible? Have you never made a mistake?"

  "I made a mistake, Mr. Keller (as it appeared at the time), in regard to

  your own illness."

  "What! you suspected foul play in my case too?"

  "Yes; and, by way of giving you another reason, I will own that the

  suspicion is still in my mind. After what I have seen this evening--and

  only after that, observe--I say the circumstances of your recovery are

  suspicious circumstances in themselves. Remember, if you please, that

  neither I nor my colleague really understood what was the matter with

  you; and that you were cured by a remedy, not prescribed by either of us.

  You were rapidly sinking; and your regular physician had left you. I had

  to choose between the certainty of your death, and the risk of letting

  you try a remedy, with the nature of which (though I did my best to

  analyze it) I was imperfectly acquainted. I ran the risk. The result has

  justified me--and up to this day, I have kept my misgivings to myself. I

  now find them renewed by Mrs. Wagner's death--and I speak."

  Mr. Keller's manner began to change. His tone was sensibly subdued. He

  understood the respect which was due to the doctor's motives at last.

  "May I ask if the symptoms of my illness resembled the symptoms of Mrs.

  Wagner's illness?" he said.

  "Far from it. Excepting the nervous derangement, in both cases, there was

  no other resemblance in the symptoms. The conclusion, to my mind, is not

  altered by this circumstance. It simply leads me to the inference that

  more than one poison may have been used. I don't attempt to solve the

  mystery. I have no idea why your life has been saved, and Mrs. Wagner's

  life sacrificed--or what motives have been at work in the dark. Ask

  yourself--don't ask me--in what direction suspicion points. I refuse to

  sign the certificate of death; and I have told you why."

  "Give me a moment," said Mr. Keller, "I don't shrink from my

  responsibility; I only ask for time to compose myself."

  It was the pride of his life to lean on nobody for help. He walked to the

  window; hiding all outward betrayal of the consternation that shook him

  to the soul. When he returned to his chair, he scrupulously avoided even

  the appearance of asking Doctor Dormann for advice.

  "My course is plain," he said quietly. "I must communicate your decision

  to the authorities; and I must afford every assistance in my power to the

  investigation that will follow. It shall be done, when the magistrates

  meet to-morrow morning."

  "We will go together to the town-hall, Mr. Keller. It is my duty to

  inform the burgomaster that this is a case for the special safeguards,

  sanctioned by the city regulations. I must also guarantee that there is

  no danger to the public health, in the removal of the body from your

  house."

  "The immediate removal?" Mr. Keller asked.

  "No! The removal twenty-four hours after death."

  "To what place?"

  "To the Deadhouse."

  CHAPTER XVI

  Acting on the doctor's information, the burgomaster issued his order. At

  eight o'clock in the evening, on the third of January, the remains of

  Mrs. Wagner were to be removed to the cemetery-building, outside the

  Friedberg Gate of Frankfort.

  Long before the present century, the dread of premature

  interment--excited by traditions of persons accidentally buried

  alive--was a widely-spread feeling among the people of Germany. In other

  cities besides Frankfort, the municipal authorities devised laws, the

  object of which was to make this frightful catastrophe impossible. In the

  early part of the present century, these laws were re-enacted and revised

  by the City of Frankfort. The Deadhouse was attached to the cemetery,

  with a double purpose. First, to afford a decent resting-place for the

  corpse, when death occurred among the crowded residences of the poorer

  class of the population. Secondly, to provide as perfect a safeguard as

  possible against the chances of premature burial. The use of the

  Deadhouse (strictly confined to the Christian portion of the inhabitants)

  was left to the free choice of surviving relatives or

  representatives--excepting only those cases in which a doctor's

  certificate justified the magistrate in pronouncing an absolute decision.

  Even in the event of valid objections to the Deadhouse as a last

  resting-place on the way to the grave, the doctor in attendance on the

  deceased person was subjected to certain restrictions in issuing his

  certificate. He was allowed to certify the death informally, for the

  purpose of facilitating the funeral arrangements. But he was absolutely

  forbidden to give his written authority for the burial, before the

  expiration of three nights from the time of the death; and he was further

  bound to certify that the signs of decomposition had actually begun to
<
br />   show themselves. Have these multiplied precautions, patiently applied in

  many German cities, through a long lapse of years, ever yet detected a

  case in which Death has failed to complete its unintelligible work? Let

  the answer be found in the cells of the dead. Pass, with the mourners,

  through the iron gates--hear and see!

  On the evening of the third, as the time approached for the arrival of

  the hearse, the melancholy stillness in the house was only broken by Mr.

  Keller's servants, below-stairs. Collecting together in one room, they

  talked confidentially, in low voices. An instinctive horror of silence,

  in moments of domestic distress, is, in all civilized nations, one of the

  marked characteristics of their class.

  "In ten minutes," said Joseph, "the men from the cemetery will be here to

  take her away. It will be no easy matter to carry her downstairs on the

  couch."

  "Why is she not put in her coffin, like other dead people?" the housemaid

  asked.

  "Because the crazy creature she brought with her from London is allowed

  to have his own way in the house," Joseph answered irritably. "If I had

  been brought to the door drunk last night, I should have been sent away

  this morning. If I had been mad enough to screech out, 'She isn't dead;

  not one of you shall put her in a coffin!'--I should have richly deserved

  a place in the town asylum, and I should have got my deserts. Nothing of

  the sort for Master Jack. Mr. Keller only tells him to be quiet, and

  looks distressed. The doctor takes him away, and speaks to him in another

  room--and actually comes back converted to Jack's opinion!"

  "You don't mean to tell us," exclaimed the cook, "that the doctor said

  she wasn't dead?"

  "Of course not. It was he who first found out that she _was_ dead--I only

  mean that he let Jack have his own way. He asked me for a foot rule, and

  he measured the little couch in the bedroom. 'It's no longer than the

  coffin' (he says); 'and I see no objection to the body being laid on it,

  till the time comes for the burial.' Those were his own words; and when

  the nurse objected to it, what do you think he said?--'Hold your tongue!

  A couch is a pleasanter thing all the world over than a coffin.' "

  "Blasphemous!" said the cook--"that's what I call it."

  "Ah, well, well!" the housemaid remarked, "couch or coffin, she looks

  beautiful, poor soul, in her black velvet robe, with the winter flowers

  in her pretty white hands. Who got the flowers? Madame Fontaine, do you

  think?"

  "Bah! Madame Fontaine, indeed! Little Crazybrains went out (instead of

  eating the good dinner I cooked for him), and got the flowers. He

  wouldn't let anybody put them into her hands but himself--at least, so

  the nurse said. Has anybody seen Madame Housekeeper? Was she downstairs

  at dinner to-day, Joseph?"

  "Not she! You mark my words," said Joseph, "there's some very serious

  reason for her keeping her room, on pretense of being ill."

  "Can you give any guess what it is?"

  "You shall judge for yourself," Joseph answered. "Did I tell you what

  happened yesterday evening, before Jack was brought home by the nurse's

  brother? I answered a ring at the door-bell--and there was Mr. Fritz in a

  towering passion, with Miss Minna on his arm looking ready to drop with

  fatigue. They rang for some wine; and I heard what he said to his father.

  It seems that Madame Fontaine had gone out walking in the dark and the

  cold (and her daughter with her), without rhyme or reason. Mr. Fritz met

  them, and insisted on taking Miss Minna home. Her mother didn't seem to

  care what he said or did. She went on walking by herself, as hard as she

  could lay her feet to the ground. And what do you suppose her excuse was?

  Her nerves were out of order! Mr. Fritz's notion is that there is

  something weighing on her mind. An hour afterwards she came back to the

  house--and I found reason to agree with Mr. Fritz."

  "Tell us all about it, Joseph! What did she do?"

  "You shall hear. It happened, just after I had seen crazy Jack safe in

  his bed. When I heard the bell, I was on my way downstairs, with a

  certain bottle in my hand. One of you saw the nurse's brother give it to

  me, I think? How he and Crazybrains came into possession of it, mind you,

  is more than I know."

  "It looked just like the big medicine-bottle that cured Mr. Keller," said

  the cook.

  "It _was_ the bottle; and, what is more, it smelt of wine, instead of

  medicine, and it was empty. Well, I opened the door to Madame

  Housekeeper, with the bottle in my hand. The instant she set eyes on it,

  she snatched it away from me. She looked--I give you my word of honor,

  she looked as if she could have cut my throat. "You wretch!"--nice

  language to use to a respectable servant, eh?--"You wretch" (she says),

  "how did you come by this?" I made her a low bow. I said, "Civility costs

  nothing, ma'am; and sometimes buys a great deal" (severe, eh?). I told

  her exactly what had happened, and exactly what Schwartz had said. And

  then I ended with another hard hit. "The next time anything of yours is

  put into my hands," I said, "I shall leave it to take care of itself." I

  don't know whether she heard me; she was holding the bottle up to the

  light. When she saw it was empty--well! I can't tell you, of course, what

  was passing in her mind. But this I can swear; she shivered and shuddered

  as if she had got a fit of the ague; and pale as she was when I let her

  into the house, I do assure you she turned paler still. I thought I

  should have to take _her_ upstairs next. My good creatures, she's made of

  iron! Upstairs she went. I followed her as far as the first landing, and

  saw Mr. Keller waiting--to tell her the news of Mrs. Wagner's death, I

  suppose. What passed between them I can't say. Mr. Fritz tells me she has

  never left her room since; and his father has not even sent a message to

  know how she is. What do you think of that?"

  "I think Mr. Fritz was mistaken, when he told you she had never left her

  room," said the housemaid. "I am next to certain I heard her whispering,

  early this morning, with crazy Jack. Do you think she will follow the

  hearse to the Deadhouse, with Mr. Keller and the doctor?"

  "Hush!" said Joseph. As he spoke, the heavy wheels of the hearse were

  heard in the street. He led the way to the top of the kitchen stairs.

  "Wait here," he whispered, "while I answer the door--and you will see."

  Upstairs, in the drawing-room, Fritz and Minna were alone. Madame

  Fontaine's door, closed to everyone, was a closed door even to her

  daughter.

  Fritz had refused to let Minna ask a second time to be let in. "It will

  soon be your husband's privilege, my darling, to take care of you and

  comfort you," he said. "At this dreadful time, there must be no

  separation between you and me."

  His arm was round her; her head rested on his shoulder. She looked up at

  him timidly.

  "Are you not going with them to the cemetery?" she asked.

  "I am going to stay with you, Minna."

  "You were angry yesterday, Fritz, when you met
me with my mother. Don't

  think the worse of her, because she is ill and troubled in her mind. You

  will make allowances for her as I do--won't you?"

  "My sweet girl, there is nothing I won't do to please you! Kiss me,

  Minna. Again! again!"

  On the higher floor of the house, Mr. Keller and the doctor were waiting

  in the chamber of death.

  Jack kept his silent watch by the side of the couch, on which the one

  human creature who had befriended him lay hushed in the last earthly

  repose. Still, from time to time, he whispered to himself the sad

  senseless words, "No, no, no--not dead, Mistress! Not dead yet!"

  There was a soft knock at the door. The doctor opened it. Madame Fontaine

  stood before him. She spoke in dull monotonous tones--standing in the

  doorway; refusing, when she was invited by a gesture, to enter the room.

  "The hearse has stopped at the door," she said. "The men wish to ask you

  if they can come in."

  It was Joseph's duty to make this announcement. Her motive for

  forestalling him showed itself dimly in her eyes. They were not on Mr.

  Keller; not on the doctor; not on the couch. From the moment when the

  door had been opened to her, she fixed her steady look on Jack. It never

  moved until the bearers of the dead hid him from her when they entered

  the room.

  The procession passed out. Jack, at Mr. Keller's command, followed last.

  Standing back at the doorway, Madame Fontaine caught him by the arm as he

  came out.

  "You were half asleep this morning," she whispered. "You are not half

  asleep now. How did you get the blue-glass bottle? I insist on knowing."

  "I won't tell you!"

  Madame Fontaine altered her tone.

  "Will you tell me who emptied the bottle? I have always been kind to

  you--it isn't much to ask. Who emptied it?"

  His variable temper changed; he lifted his head proudly. Absolutely sure

  of his mistress's recovery, he now claimed the merit that was his due.

  _"I_ emptied it!"

  "How did you empty it?" she asked faintly. "Did you throw away what was

  in it? Did you give it to anybody?"

  He seized her in his turn--and dragged her to the railing of the

  corridor. "Look there!" he cried, pointing to the bearers, slowly

  carrying their burden down the stairs. "Do you see her, resting on her

  little sofa till she recovers? I gave it to her!"

  He left her, and descended the stairs. She staggered back against the

  wall of the corridor. Her sight seemed to be affected. She groped for the

  stair-rail, and held by it. The air was wafted up through the open

  street-door. It helped her to rally her energies. She went down steadily,

  step by step, to the first landing--paused, and went down again. Arrived

  in the hall, she advanced to Mr. Keller, and spoke to him.

  "Are you going to see the body laid in the Deadhouse?"

  "Yes."

  "Is there any objection to my seeing it too?"

  "The authorities have no objection to admitting friends of the deceased

  person," Mr. Keller answered. He looked at her searchingly, and added,

  "Do _you_ go as a friend?"

  It was rashly said; and he knew it. The magistrates had decided that the

  first inquiries should be conducted with the greatest secrecy. For that

  day, at least, the inmates of the house were to enjoy their usual liberty

  of action (under private superintendence), so that no suspicion might be

  excited in the mind of the guilty person. Conscious of having trifled

  with the serious necessity of keeping a guard over his tongue, Mr. Keller

  waited anxiously for Madame Fontaine's reply.

  Not a word fell from her lips. There was a slight hardening of her face,