Jezebel's Daughter

by Wilkie Collins

again with the dead ones. Make way there! I mean to dance with them too.

  Come on, mad watchman--come on! I'm as mad as you are!"

  He whirled round and round with the fancied ghost for a partner in the

  dance. The coarse laughter of Schwartz burst out again at the terrible

  sight. He called, with drunken triumph, to Madame Fontaine. "Look at

  Jacky, ma'am. There's a dancer for you! There's good company for a dull

  winter night!" She neither looked nor moved--she sat crouched on the

  chair, spellbound with terror. Jack threw up his arms, turned giddily

  once or twice, and sank exhausted on the floor. "The cold of him creeps

  up my hands," he said, still possessed by the vision of the watchman. "He

  cools my eyes, he calms my heart, he stuns my head. I'm dying, dying,

  dying--going back with him to the grave. Poor me! poor me!"

  He lay hushed in a strange repose; his eyes wide open, staring up at the

  moon. Schwartz drained the last drop of brandy out of the flask. "Jack's

  name ought to be Solomon," he pronounced with drowsy solemnity; "Solomon

  was wise; and Jack's wise. Jack goes to sleep, when the liquor's done.

  Take away the bottle, before the overseer comes in. If any man says I am

  not sober, that man lies. The Rhine wine has a way of humming in one's

  head. That's all, Mr. Overseer--that's all. Do I see the sun rising, up

  there in the skylight? I wish you good-night; I wish--you--good--night."

  He laid his heavy arms on the table; his head dropped on them--he slept.

  The time passed. No sound broke the silence but the lumpish snoring of

  Schwartz. No change appeared in Jack; there he lay, staring up at the

  moon.

  Somewhere in the building (unheard thus far in the uproar) a clock struck

  the first hour of the morning.

  Madame Fontaine started. The sound shook her with a new fear--a fear that

  expressed itself in a furtive look at the cell in which the dead woman

  lay. If the corpse-bell rang, would the stroke of it be like the single

  stroke of the clock?

  "Jack!" she whispered. "Do you hear the clock? Oh, Jack, the stillness is

  dreadful--speak to me.

  He slowly raised himself. Perhaps the striking of the clock--perhaps some

  inner prompting--had roused him. He neither answered Madame Fontaine, nor

  looked at her. With his arms clasped round his knees, he sat on the floor

  in the attitude of a savage. His eyes, which had stared at the moon, now

  stared with the same rigid, glassy look at the alarm-bell over the

  cell-door.

  The time went on. Again the oppression of silence became more than Madame

  Fontaine could endure. Again she tried to make Jack speak to her.

  "What are you looking at?" she asked. "What are you waiting for? Is

  it----?" The rest of the sentence died away on her lips: the words that

  would finish it were words too terrible to be spoken.

  The sound of her voice produced no visible impression on Jack. Had it

  influenced him, in some unseen way? Something did certainly disturb the

  strange torpor that held him. He spoke. The tones were slow and

  mechanical--the tones of a man searching his memory with pain and

  difficulty; repeating his recollections, one by one, as he recovered

  them, to himself.

  "When she moves," he muttered, "her hands pull the string. Her hands send

  a message up: up and up to the bell." He paused, and pointed to the

  cell-door.

  The action had a horrible suggestiveness to the guilty wretch who was

  watching him.

  "Don't do that!" she cried. "Don't point _there!"_

  His hand never moved; he pursued his newly-found recollections of what

  the doctor had shown to him.

  "Up and up to the bell," he repeated. "And the bell feels it. The steel

  thing moves. The bell speaks. Good bell! Faithful bell!"

  The clock struck the half-hour past one. Madame Fontaine shrieked at the

  sound--her senses knew no distinction between the clock and the bell.

  She saw his pointing hand drop back, and clasp itself with the other

  hand, round his knees. He spoke--softly and tenderly now--he was speaking

  to the dead. "Rise Mistress, rise! Dear soul, the time is long; and poor

  Jack is waiting for you!"

  She thought the closed curtains moved: the delusion was reality to her.

  She tried to rouse Schwartz.

  "Watchman! watchman! Wake up!"

  He slept on as heavily as ever.

  She half rose from her chair. She was almost on her feet--when she sank

  back again. Jack had moved. He got up on his knees. "Mistress hears me!"

  he said. The light of vivid expression showed itself in his eyes. Their

  vacancy was gone: they looked longingly at the door of the cell. He got

  on his feet--he pressed both hands over his bosom. "Come!" he said. "Oh,

  Mistress, come!"

  There was a sound--a faint premonitory rustling sound--over the door.

  The steel hammer moved--rose--struck the metal globe. The bell rang.

  He stood rooted to the floor, sobbing hysterically. The iron grasp of

  suspense held him.

  Not a cry, not a movement escaped Madame Fontaine. The life seemed to

  have been struck out of her by the stroke of the bell. It woke Schwartz.

  Except that he looked up, he too never moved: he too was like a living

  creature turned to stone.

  A minute passed.

  The curtains swayed gently. Tremulous fingers crept out, parting them.

  Slowly, over the black surface of the curtain, a fair naked arm showed

  itself, widening the gap.

  The figure appeared, in its velvet pall. On the pale face the stillness

  of repose was barely ruffled yet. The eyes alone were conscious of

  returning life. They looked out on the room, softly surprised and

  perplexed--no more. They looked downwards: the lips trembled sweetly into

  a smile. She saw Jack, kneeling in ecstasy at her feet.

  And now again, there was stillness in the room. Unutterable happiness

  rejoiced, unutterable dread suffered, in the same silence.

  The first sound heard came suddenly from the lonely outer hall. Hurrying

  footsteps swept over the courtyard. The flash of lights flew along the

  dark passage. Voices of men and women, mingled together, poured into the

  Watchman's Chamber.

  POSTSCRIPT

  MR. DAVID GLENNEY RETURNS TO FRANKFORT, AND CLOSES THE STORY

  I

  On the twelfth of December, I received a letter from Mrs. Wagner,

  informing me that the marriage of Fritz and Minna had been deferred until

  the thirteenth of January. Shortly afterwards I left London, on my way to

  Frankfort.

  My departure was hurried, to afford me time to transact business with

  some of our correspondents in France and in Northern Germany. Our

  head-clerk, Mr. Hartrey (directing the London house in Mrs. Wagner's

  absence), had his own old-fashioned notions of doing nothing in a hurry.

  He insisted on allowing me a far larger margin of time, for treating with

  our correspondents, than I was likely to require. The good man little

  suspected to what motive my ready submission to him was due. I was eager

  to see my aunt and the charming Minna once more. Without neglecting any

  of my duties (and with the occasional sacrifice of trave
ling by night), I

  contrived to reach Frankfort a week before I was expected--that is to

  say, in the forenoon of the fourth of January.

  II

  Joseph's face, when he opened the door, at once informed me that

  something extraordinary was going on in the house.

  "Anything wrong?" I asked.

  Joseph looked at me in a state of bewilderment. "You had better speak to

  the doctor," he said.

  "The doctor! Who is ill? My aunt? Mr. Keller? Who is it?" In my

  impatience, I took him by the collar of his coat, and shook him. I shook

  out nothing but the former answer, a little abridged:--

  "Speak to the doctor."

  The office-door was close by me. I asked one of the clerks if Mr. Keller

  was in his room. The clerk informed me that Mr. Keller was upstairs with

  the doctor. In the extremity of my suspense, I inquired again if my aunt

  was ill. The man opened his eyes. "Is it possible you haven't heard?" he

  said.

  "Is she dead or alive?" I burst out, losing all patience.

  "Both," answered the clerk.

  I began--not unnaturally, I think--to wonder whether I was in Mr.

  Keller's house, or in an asylum for idiots. Returning to the hall, I

  collared Joseph for the second time. "Take me up to the doctor

  instantly!" I said.

  Joseph led the way upstairs--not on my aunt's side of the house, to my

  infinite relief. On the first landing, he made a mysterious

  communication. "Mr. David, I have given notice to leave," he said. "There

  are some things that no servant can put up with. While a person lives, I

  expect a person to live. When a person dies, I expect a person to die.

  There must be no confusion on such a serious subject as life and death. I

  blame nobody--I understand nothing--I merely go. Follow me, if you

  please, sir."

  Had he been drinking? He led the way up the next flight of stairs,

  steadily and quietly. He knocked discreetly at Madame Fontaine's door.

  "Mr. David Glenney," he announced, "to see Doctor Dormann."

  Mr. Keller came out first, closing the door behind him. He embraced me,

  with a demonstrative affection far from characteristic of him at other

  times. His face was disturbed; his voice faltered, as he spoke his first

  words to me.

  "Welcome back, David--more welcome than ever!"

  "My aunt is well, I hope?"

  He clasped his hands fervently. "God is merciful," he said. "Thank God!"

  "Is Madame Fontaine ill?"

  Before he could answer, the door was opened again. Doctor Dormann came

  out.

  "The very man I want!" he exclaimed. "You could not possibly have arrived

  at a better time." He turned to Mr. Keller. "Where can I find

  writing-materials? In the drawing-room? Come down, Mr. Glenney. Come

  down, Mr. Keller."

  In the drawing-room, he wrote a few lines rapidly. "See us sign our

  names," he said. He handed the pen to Mr. Keller after he had signed

  himself--and then gave me the paper to read.

  To my unspeakable amazement, the writing certified that, "the suspended

  vital forces in Mrs. Wagner had recovered their action, in the Deadhouse

  of Frankfort, at half-past one o'clock on the morning of the fourth of

  January; that he had professionally superintended the restoration to

  life; and that he thereby relieved the magistrates from any further

  necessity for pursuing a private inquiry, the motive for which no longer

  existed." To this statement there was a line added, declaring that Mr.

  Keller withdrew his application to the magistrates; authenticated by Mr.

  Keller's signature.

  I stood with the paper in my hand, looking from one to the other of them,

  as completely bewildered as Joseph himself.

  "I can't leave Madame Fontaine," said the doctor; "I am professionally

  interested in watching the case. Otherwise, I would have made my

  statement in person. Mr. Keller has been terribly shaken, and stands in

  urgent need of rest and quiet. You will do us both a service if you will

  take that paper to the town-hall, and declare before the magistrates that

  you know us personally, and have seen us sign our names. On your return,

  you shall have every explanation that I can give; and you shall see for

  yourself that you need feel no uneasiness on the subject of your aunt."

  Having arrived at the town-hall, I made the personal statement to which

  the doctor had referred. Among the questions put to me, I was asked if I

  had any direct interest in the matter--either as regarded Mrs. Wagner or

  any other person. Having answered that I was Mrs. Wagner's nephew, I was

  instructed to declare in writing, that I approved (as Mrs. Wagner's

  representative) of the doctor's statement and of Mr. Keller's withdrawal

  of his application.

  With this, the formal proceedings terminated, and I was free to return to

  the house.

  III

  Joseph had his orders, this time. He spoke like a reasonable being--he

  said the doctor was waiting for me, in Madame Fontaine's room. The place

  of the appointment rather surprised me.

  The doctor opened the door--but paused before he admitted me.

  "I think you were the first person," he said, "who saw Mr. Keller, on the

  morning when he was taken ill?"

  "After the late Mr. Engelman," I answered, "I was the first person.

  "Come in, then. I want you to look at Madame Fontaine."

  He led me to the bedside. The instant I looked at her, I saw Mr. Keller's

  illness reproduced, in every symptom. There she lay, in the same apathy;

  with the same wan look on her face, and the same intermittent trembling

  of her hands. When I recovered the first shock of the discovery, I was

  able to notice poor Minna, kneeling at the opposite side of the bed,

  weeping bitterly. "Oh, my dear one!" she cried, in a passion of grief,

  "look at me! speak to me!"

  The mother opened her eyes for a moment--looked at Minna--and closed them

  again wearily. "Leave me quiet," she said, in tones of fretful entreaty.

  Minna rose and bent over the pillow tenderly. "Your poor lips look so

  parched," she said; "let me give you some lemonade?" Madame Fontaine only

  repeated the words, "Leave me quiet." The same reluctance to raise her

  heavy eyelids, the same entreaty to be left undisturbed, which had

  alarmed me on the memorable morning when I had entered Mr. Keller's room!

  Doctor Dormann signed to me to follow him out. As he opened the door, the

  nurse inquired if he had any further instructions for her. "Send for me,

  the moment you see a change," he answered; "I shall be in the

  drawing-room, with Mr. Glenney." I silently pressed poor Minna's hand,

  before I left her. Who could have presumed, at that moment, to express

  sympathy in words?

  The doctor and I descended the stairs together. "Does her illness remind

  you of anything?" he asked.

  "Of Mr. Keller's illness," I answered, "exactly as I remember it."

  He made no further remark. We entered the drawing-room. I inquired if I

  could see my aunt.

  "You must wait a little," he said. "Mrs. Wagner is asleep. The longer she

  sleeps the more complete her recovery will be. My main anxiety is about
/>
  Jack. He is quiet enough now, keeping watch outside her door; but he has

  given me some trouble. I wish I knew more of his early history. From all

  I can learn, he was only what is called "half-witted," when they received

  him at the asylum in London. The cruel repressive treatment in that place

  aggravated his imbecility into violent madness--and such madness has a

  tendency to recur. Mrs. Wagner's influence, which has already done so

  much, is my main hope for the future. Sit down, and let me explain the

  strange position in which you find us here, as well as I can."

  IV

  "Do you remember how Mr. Keller's illness was cured?" the doctor began.

  Those words instantly reminded me, not only of Doctor Dormann's

  mysterious suspicions at the time of the illness, but of Jack's

  extraordinary question to me, on the morning when I left Frankfort. The

  doctor saw that I answered him with some little embarrassment.

  "Let us open our minds to each other, without reserve," he said. "I have

  set you thinking of something. What is it?"

  I replied, concealing nothing. Doctor Dormann was equally candid on his

  side. He spoke to me, exactly as he is reported to have spoken to Mr.

  Keller, in the Second Part of this narrative.

  "You now know," he proceeded, "what I thought of Mr. Keller's

  extraordinary recovery, and what I feared when I found Mrs. Wagner (as I

  then firmly believed) dead. My suspicions of poisoning pointed to the

  poisoner. Madame Fontaine's wonderful cure of Mr. Keller, by means of her

  own mysterious remedy, made me suspect Madame Fontaine. My motive, in

  refusing to give the burial certificate, was to provoke the legal

  inquiry, which I knew that Mr. Keller would institute, on the mere

  expression of a doubt, on my part, whether your aunt had died a natural

  death. At that time, I had not the slightest anticipation of the event

  that has actually occurred. Before, however, we had removed the remains

  to the Deadhouse, I must own I was a little startled--prepare yourself

  for a surprise--by a private communication, addressed to me by Jack."

  He repeated Jack's narrative of the opening of the Pink-Room cupboard,

  and the administration of the antidote to Mrs. Wagner.

  "You will understand," he went on, "that I was too well aware of the

  marked difference between Mr. Keller's illness and Mrs. Wagner's illness

  to suppose for a moment that the same poison had been given to both of

  them. I was, therefore, far from sharing Jack's blind confidence in the

  efficacy of the blue-glass bottle, in the case of his mistress. But I

  tell you, honestly, my mind was disturbed about it. Towards night, my

  thoughts were again directed to the subject, under mysterious

  circumstances. Mr. Keller and I accompanied the hearse to the Deadhouse.

  On our way through the streets, I was followed and stopped by Madame

  Fontaine. She had something to give me. Here it is."

  He laid on the table a sheet of thick paper, closely covered with writing

  in cipher.

  V

  "Whose writing is this?" I asked.

  "The writing of Madame Fontaine's late husband."

  "And she put it into your hands!"

  "Yes--and asked me to interpret the cipher for her."

  "It's simply incomprehensible."

  "Not in the least. She knew the use to which Jack had put her antidote,

  and (in her ignorance of chemistry) she was eager to be prepared for any

  consequences which might follow. Can you guess on what chance I

  calculated, when I consented to interpret the cipher?"

  "On the chance that it might tell you what poison she had given to Mrs.

  Wagner?"

  "Well guessed, Mr. Glenney!"